You loved driving that Austin-Healey, top down, wind blowing your hair back. You grinned between puffs on your cigar. The canyon was yours to wind around your finger. The road was yours to another place. A place that only looked like the beach. It was a place where you were free of wife, children, job, and chores you listed and color-coded but never did.
I visit your grave and wonder if you’re smoking a cigar while you drive that Austin-Healey on the serpentine roads of the Great Beyond. I wonder if you drive too close to the car in front while you point to the canyon below.
I wonder if I’ll join you for a road trip when I die, hanging on in terror in the back seat.
published in Write Under the Moon
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