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Prose poem - My uncle's motorcycles
I have always been surprised by my uncle’s passion for his motorcycles, of the many he had had over the pass of the time. Family reunions would always end up with one of more than one cousin riding the motorcycle with my uncle leading the driving with a big smile. His passion for motorcycles didn’t let him own only one motorcycle, but rather two, and occasionally three. Like collectable cards, he sells, and buys new ones, I believe if it were in his possibility, he would buy all the motorcycles existing in the world, and ride one different each day. Through his eyes, it’s not just a motorcycle, it’s more than that, for him, it’s the wind blowing directly into his face, the freedom, speed, and adrenaline altogether creating a perfect combination. Although he has never accepted the fact that he takes care of his motorcycles as if each one was an individual son or daughter, and he is the proudly father that would never let anything happen to them, not a single scratch, always clean and neat, and constantly checking the engines himself. I remember one day asking him why he likes motorcycles so much, he then went quiet for a few seconds and then replied that it started as a way to connect to his father that he loves very much. My uncle was a wimpy kid in his early years, constantly being sick due to poor health; he hated and still hates hospitals. One day, when he was fourteen years old and stuck in an uncomfortable bed inside the hospital for more days than he could count, his dad appeared in the middle of the night and proposed his son to go for a ride even though he couldn’t leave the hospital, but his father hated seeing his sick son very sad and inanimate in a used bed like a soul that stopped trying. Both snuck out and went for a motorcycle ride in the middle of night, and for my uncle, it was a very important memory, he remembers the stars in the sky, the hot air blowing in his face, but his heart was even warmer, as he had never felt truly happy in a while. For a few more years, he continued being sick, but he knew it didn’t matter, because his biggest blessing was having a great father that he loved. After this, I can see that the bicycles represent him in the most humble way possible: to express an infinite love louder than any engine, heavier than any vehicle, and protective as any helmet, the love for his father.
Word count: 437
