My father’s car with his pride and joy. It was an old rusted 1978 Ford Truck, but he had built it with his own bare hands. Every piece was hand-picked by him, like berries on a bush. He used to take that car everywhere, car shows vacations, even on our cross country trip.
That car meant a lot to him, and I couldn’t imagine anyone else driving it. However, I later heard some news that changed my option on the matter. My father was a soldier deployed in Afghanistan.
When my mother first told me about the news, emotions swirled in my head like water going down a drain. My head buzzed like the lights in a poorly lit hospital. I couldn’t think straight, and I felt sick. The first thing I did after hearing the news was run to my father's car.
It still smelt like him, and I could almost picture him sitting in the front seat. The smell of ax body spray and caramel from the candies he used to eat lingered in the card. I sat in the driver's seat and pictured myself as him.
After a few good moments of crying, I decided to look around the car. I opened the middle console and took a look inside. A bag of caramels was sitting there, slightly melted from the heat outside. I smiled at the thought of him continually popping one in his mouth. It always made his breath smell sweet like sugar. Momma always told him that those candies were going to rot his teeth, but he didn’t care; and would sneak a piece to each of us kids. My Pa was kind and cared about everyone.
After rummaging around the center counsel for a few minutes, I decided to look under the seat—his old work boots, covered in mud like paint at an abstract art museum. There was something beautiful about the way the mud-coated those boots, like it, was destined to be there, and it was determined to stay.
Next to the boots laid a piece of clothing. I pulled it out and took a look at it. It was a T-shirt that my pa had bought from an act we saw in Vegas. I put the shirt on over my dress and looked at how big it fit me. I knew that pa’s spirit would always be around, and I figured this shirt was like a hug from him.
A while after my father had passed on, I didn’t want to drive the truck. My mother urged me, said it be right, but I wanted to keep it where it was. So I could always remember it the way I last saw it when papa was here with us.
