To My Grandmother’s Old Car,
I remember we were driving down the highway: you, me and my Grandma. You smelled like cigarette smoke and pine tree air freshener. I was in the front passenger seat and my hand must have strayed to the latch that would release your big, heavy door. And my Grandma casually started to tell a story.
“You know, once in the car your uncle tried the door handle and opened the door while we were driving.”
I looked at her with wide eyes.
“The door opened.”
Blacktop streamed past us on either side.
“And we were driving, and I couldn’t stop, so to keep him from falling out I–” her hand darted out and slapped down on my forearm, holding fast. How did I never notice how talon-like her fingers were? She glanced over and smiled at me. “So don’t open the door by accident, OK?”
Funny thing is, she surprised the crap out of me in that moment, and I got a sense of how freaking fierce that woman was, but she wasn’t trying to make me afraid of her, and I knew that, even as a tiny kid.
But I legit should have been in a carseat. You know that, right?
-e.