We would tumble into the back of Dad’s black Cadillac like tiny acrobats, my sister sucking her withering thumb, my brothers showing each other their new baseball cards. At the Dairy Queen I wondered how to balance a second scoop on my ice cream cone. Wondered if I’d have to share.
Later, Dad traded the Cadillac for a Thunderbird. I liked it – it was a turquoise that matched the sofa in the living room, the same color Mom painted all the appliances. When Dad returned home from work each night, we’d lift the garage door like the curtain on a stage, and usher in the new T-bird.
Much later, new cars spilled onto the driveway. Temporary cars: Dan’s gold Monterey, Bob’s Triumph, Dick’s orange VW. Our torsos thrust through open sunroofs, arms outstretched like crosses, we’d ride to freedom and return to safety, the garage door opening and closing at all hours.
We came and went so much we engineered our own gridlock. Our cars developed problems. They broke down or stalled out, had to be abandoned in a ravine somewhere. We began pricing ten-speeds, but our birthdays always came just in time, the new wheels in the driveway wrapped with red ribbons.
The last car Dad ever bought was a silver Lincoln Continental. It had been briefly owned by the golfer Arnold Palmer, in town for a tournament. It was the only secondhand car Dad ever owned, the one he was driving when he died. I still imagine him halfway down I-77, us falling in forever behind him – a line of ducklings, me in my red Camaro, the boys in their twin Vegas, our sister in her little white Opel.
Cheryl Snell’s books include poetry and fiction. Recent writing appeared in Maudlin House, Ghost Parachute, Flash Boulevard, Midway Journal, Boudin, 2025 Best Small Fictions. and Best Microfiction, Dribble Drabble Review, Mad Swirl and Eclectica anthologies. She lives in Maryland. Facebook.com/
Illustration via Unsplash.