PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

A quiet hum and a steady pace. The clack clack clack of the ice cubes in my grandfather's beverage in unison with the clack clack clack of the clubs in the rear compartment. The old, worn out leather of the seat grows a streak after being used; each streak holding a memory. The laughter after the inappropriate jokes my grandfather would tell his golfing buddies; the words of a caddy only as wise as the next bad shot; the desperation from my father after missing the puts whilst being taught and of course the cries of excitement from his first hole in one followed by the traditional round of steaks at the clubhouse. For EZ-GO, the company that manufactured his golf cart, it was the product of the labor from a random tuesdays afternoon shift. But blindly, what they had built that day would become the family's most treasured relic. After my grandfather's mournful death in June 2005 everyone was left with a missing piece. It was maybe his advice, no-bullshit attitude, his snarky comments or encouragement to succeed what people were left without after the funeral. By this point both my aunts, cousins, father and finally myself came to add more streaks to the worn out leather seat. After 15 years of devoted service the doubt emerged of what was the next step. A new golf cart was on order, in the same color and specifications as my grandfather's. As each family member declared they would take charge in selling the old EZ-GO they immediately regretted it and passed the task to the next family member. My father's turn came and one afternoon we both inspected the cart in the same spot that my grandfather had parked it for the last fifteen years. The dark green paintwork, the key still holding my grandfather's chosen keychain and all the experiences that carried the sturdy beige roof. We took it out for a drive with only 2 feet and the turn of the wheel being enough for my father and I to give ourselves that look. We both knew at that moment, this cart wasn't going anywhere. A weekly wash, monthly polish and once a year drive is what keeps the cart in the same pristine condition my grandfather had left it in. A pointless waste of money for anyone outside the family circle but the absolute right thing to do in the eyes of every person who came in contact with my grandfather. My father and I know deep within that we made the right choice. In that sunny afternoon we went to inspect the cart, after the half hour drive we had left yet another streak in the leather seat.