Last Ride

I must have been about ten when the Mustang died. It felt as late as midnight as you tugged at the steering wheel, pulling the car out of harms way. I wasn’t yet old enough to understand what that look on your face meant but there we were on 1-70, three thumbs turned up, faces tucked in our jackets to shield the blazing snow. I remember how white Ben’s little thumb looked pitched upward into that black sky. We shivered as you rationalized, well, it did only cost us three payments of $300. And then came the headlights and a man with an army green coat sleeve cranking his window down with a need some help, ma’am? You hopped in the front as we squeezed in back perched on a bumpy tarp-covered surface. It was only when we were almost home that I caught a glimpse of Ben’s pie eyed stare, his chalky lips forming a perfect “o”, as he lifted a corner of the plastic to reveal a dead deer.

When we got home, you put the kettle on and fell to your knees, blowing on our hands and rubbing them like you were trying to start a fire from scratch. And Ben said, in that way only he can, where there’s a will…there’s a thrill ...we laughed so hard as i watched you reach for the drawer to pull out the red marker so you could write his words on the pantry wall.