By Jeanne Althouse

Our father couldn't stop swallowing tires.
It was a secret, but we knew. We knew when we saw the car without tires, stranded, crippled, on the street two blocks down. We passed it walking to school.
Not another one, we said, shaking our heads. Fell off the wagon--again.
He preferred the taste of Goodyear, like a finer wine. Went down better than Michelin, he said once, in therapy.
At home we used a Pit Bull Tire Lock on each wheel of the family car, locked up our bicycles, scooters--the lawn mower even.
He was trying to quit, but even with the patch on, he snacked on rubber bands.