The Cassette Tape

An old, clunky truck drives down the highway,
Both windows slightly rolled down as the wind surges into the interior
I study the crack of separation between the glass and and the roof
Admiring the amount of colour that small section possesses

My gaze turns to the center, where I notice the small, black tree
That hangs from the rearview mirror,
Filling up the vehicle with a masculine scent.
I watch it move and sway with each and every turn;
How it’s always carried by everything around it,
Much like myself.

I gaze past the dashboard and stare at the hood of the car,
Or, at least, what I can see of it from my seat.
I focus on the hood and what is under it;
As I listen to the engine rumble with a coarse and low stutter.
I swear, it’s like that rusty motor has more life than I do.

From the engine to the radio, I advert my eyes;
Paying attention to the old, vintage knobs and dials
Running my fingers along the tiny ridges and small, plastic panes.
I turn the dials as my ears tune in to the static-infused melodies
As they make their way past my eardrums and into my brain.

As the music plays I stare at the dashboard, and then the glove compartment
I open the glovebox, slowly and carefully
As I cautiously pull out an old cassette tape.
I turn it over in my hands.
It’s amazing how this tiny box of plastic
Can withhold so many memories.

Scribbled on the front of this tape
Was a series of wide and  curvy letters
The letters alternated between purple and navy blue
Crafting the words “Dandelion Hands”

I place the tape into the audio player
Slowly turning up the volume on the radio dial;
My gazed becomes fixated upon the radio
As the seconds tick from the electric glow behind the plastic pane.
I sense a warm and comforting sensation, even though the tune is quite somber.

My eyes turn from the radio to the window
I begin to focus on the rolled-down, open section of the glass,
Letting the soft symphony drone on and on,
As it gives me instructions
on How To Never Stop Being Sad.