Tell Me a Story
Mom drove a faded blue AMC Pacer. The fabric seats were torn, and all the vinyl had huge cracks from the Texas heat. Over the years, other people’s lives had spilled down into every rip and crevice in the car. The car wouldn’t start. Again. So, we sat and waited. She put her hands on top of mine, her slender fingers warm and comforting, and said, “Tell me a story.” She closed her eyes slowly. Sweat from my body seeped into the fabric seats, and my legs stuck to the vinyl parts. I kept talking as the car heated up.
Photo credit: Brecht Bug
I walked the lot with the settlement from my wreck. This one was solid metal, well and glass. A lady said her name was Pumpkin. Pumpkin took us all over the Smokies and with those picture widows we had 360 technicolor vision. When I got promoted she went in a van with all our possessions and room to spare. I kept her going to see the sequoias, Palomar, and Big Sur with an all-night fog and star symphony. With my arm hanging out the window to hold the door shut we drove the Imperial Mile. Then she was gone.
Oh, cars, those often unsung members of the family.
I love this story!