Evolution

I miss the intimacy of old cars. The way sitting on the front bench seat felt akin to sinking into that perfectly worn, velvet couch in your grandmother’s sepia toned living room. Drawing lines in the fabric simply by running a finger in opposing directions. Erasing them with a deliberate flick of the wrist. How a pothole became a trampoline – Indian style fluidity resulting from the slouching of shoulders. The straightening of the spine. The conscious, momentary giving-in to weightlessness. Rocking on nylon warmed by a humid August sun.

I wish I could go back there – that old Buick I had known then only as "the boat." Back to that one, single day when it was just my grandmother and me. When I got to ride shotgun through the hilly roads of small-town Northern California because my sister wasn’t there to call it first.

I remember thinking – knobby legs sprawled wide beneath a much-too-big, clunky, silver seat belt – "this is the closest to Bedknobs and Broomsticks I’ll ever get…"

Just bobbing along. And I was okay with that.

My sister’s Mustang feels like riding in a cock pit – all hard plastic and sharp edges. You stay on your side and I’ll stay on mine. No touching, you hear?

I skimped and went cheap in my little red car – imitation leather seat covers bought from Amazon for $15 to hide the cigarette burn I still can’t get anybody to cop to. Over three years now and the damn seats are still as stiff as they were on the lot.

And Shaun’s truck – what with it’s squeaky center console and all. I’d give anything to be able to slide my way over, sidle in against him as we’re driving through the orange groves – watching the sunset with the windows down and his one free hand laced with mine.

It’s not the same.

All I want is for some things to stay the same.