Third

They do go in threes,
The matriarch, the retired farmer and now the mechanic.
I was secretly hoping that he wouldn't make the Trifecta.
But he went at last.

When I was twenty two,
Young, eager,
And naïve.
I felt his gruff exterior abrade.
But I did not know his humour then.

I have been travelling the vital years of my life,
Marriage, children, maturity.
And he has been a constant.
Smiling knowingly,
Each time my car met with an unexpected mishap.
"You do realise that these things need oil."

A Catholic, dad seven times,
He fuelled my car and enjoyed my kids,
Tapping at the glass, smiling or engaging them in chat.

He told me once that he had raised those garage doors,
Every working day of his life since he was fourteen.
His son, third generation has recently updated them.
No need to put on the gloves and pull hard on the chain,
The new blue doors roll-up easily.

In hindsight,
It seems an unfortunate omen.