Detroit Salt | Linda Drach
When my father says, Dress warm. No tube tops or flip flops, I’m flummoxed. He’s one of the good ones – he mows the lawn and pays for my flute lessons and comes home from work at 4:15 every day – but in our world, the care of daughters is the province of mothers. Even a ride-along to K-mart or Jiffy Lube would be surprising. Could he be taking me ice skating? It’s summer, but the Zambonis run all night, keeping indoor rinks pristine for men’s hockey leagues.
He doesn’t say a word as we drive past the giant Uniroyal Tire and miles of manufacturing plants wrapped in concertina wire, but we’re listening to WJZZ, and when Artie Shaw comes on, he turns it up and drums the wheel with his fingers. His good mood continues as we join a group of middle-aged men – all of us outfitted in hard hats with headlamps – in a cramped elevator that will take us to our final destination 1,000 feet below the city. On the long descent, our guide explains that the salt mine will be closing permanently, and we are among the lucky few who get to see it. Now, I understand why I am here. My father, proud American son of immigrant parents, will never call me a pet name or ask me what I’m reading, but he’ll help me walk into worlds that are bigger than his, even if he’s not sure what they will look like.
When we reach the bottom, I think about my mother, vacuuming or flipping through a Better Homes and Gardens, unaware of the vast cavern beneath her feet. The mine is cold and clean, and the salt is older than the dinosaurs, formed when fish were just beginning to grow legs. It’s as if I’ve been invited to tour my father’s inner world. The men ask our guide questions about production quotas and drill rig maintenance, the height of the tunnels and the length of the roads snaking into oblivion. My question is different: how dark does it get? The men agree to show me.
On the count of three, we snap off our lamps, and for a moment, I’m part of a shared emptiness. I grab my father’s arm, and when the light returns, I keep holding on, and he lets me. Together, we watch conveyer belts carry the ancient ocean to the surface, where it will be crushed and sorted and screened and bagged, and some of it will make its way to our garage next winter, where my father – alone, in the frigid pre-dawn – will toss it on our icy driveway and sidewalks to clear a path for us. To keep us from falling.
About the Author:
Linda Drach is a writer, public health policy manager, and creative writing teacher at The Writers Studio. Her poetry and prose have been published in Bellingham Review, CALYX, Crab Creek Review, Lunch Ticket, Okay Donkey, and elsewhere. Her poetry chapbook, Pop-Up Shrines, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2025. Find her online at lindadrach.com and on Instagram: @inky_lyrics.