The wheels on the wooden truck would squeal with every turn. It was a toy. As children we didn’t understand That it required gentle handling. “Your great grandfather made that, be careful with it.”
The wheels on the wooden truck 
would squeal with every turn.
It was a toy.
As children we didn’t understand 
That it required gentle handling.
“Your great grandfather made that,
 be careful with it.”
 half-true stories
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photovoltaics
photovoltaics I yearn to learn the art of storytelling
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
The wooden truck

The wheels on the wooden truck would squeal with every turn. It was a toy. As children we didn’t understand That it required gentle handling. “Your great grandfather made that, be careful with it.”

What that meant to us was not to throw it or drop it from a tree. With hard play the wheels wore away More and more each day. One more push, and it would fall apart. But before we managed to cause any more damage We grew up.

And stored it away in a closet. And there it stayed, And stayed, Stayed. Not alone, but surrounded by lots of other toys and books stuffed into every shelf and nook. When we moved into a new house it would be moved into a new closet, Almost forgotten.

But every time a child walks in there they pull it out, drive it around. They have the same excitement we did when we would stick our dolls in—- But that sound! That constant squeak! Please stop it I plea! Put it away, shut the door, just play with the marbles on the floor.

So there it lies, behind the door, Waiting for one last push, Just one more.

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