the story of Grandpa’s full-leather, green Lincoln

This is the story of Grandpa’s full-leather, green Lincoln on a hot day in the sun, the way if you left the windows up after cranking them, it seared the parts of your thighs left bare from your summer shorts when you first slid in the seat after swimming at the community pool.

The buckling of the warm nylon seat belt, matching the interior, meant we were going places.

How we went places.

There’s completeness in finishing something: a life, a bowl of cereal, a TV show, a changed tire.

This is the story of the full-size, green Lincoln that needed the love and errands to the laundromat and Friday nights with the family at a restaurant for someone’s birthday or job promotion.

I’m going to tell you about the traffic, how to change a tire on a hot summer night with the windows rolled down, the nearby field to the side of the road, a Frisbee and the wind or the family dog to chase and catch it.

The wind and the Frisbee.

This is the story about a beautiful accident, about lug nuts thinking they can fly, too, and yellow reflective vests and red glowing wands. There’s high moan to flares by the side of the road and the people watching, always slowly watching, when they pass with rolled-down windows.

This is the story about outside those windows, the red blinkers triggered like emergency lights by the side of the road, and the full-leather, green Lincoln that Grandpa lent us one summer that would sear the parts of your thighs left bare by your summer shorts, only one of them left blinking, not broken, like you.