Riding with the Kings

 

1964 Ford at the Conoco Station

I remember car trips. Something about the long road stretching out before us, with nothing but time to talk because there’s no television, no phone reception, nothing to distract us. That’s when my dad told me of a childhood in the rural south and how he wished for more. When my mom told me that she used to sing with her cousins but gave it up because her mother asked her to, and how those same cousins went on to fame. And I wondered if my parents ever wished they’d taken a different path. Car rides are where I told my daughter that her world should be bigger than mine and that she shouldn’t repeat my mistakes, and where she told me her dreams. Car rides are where my husband and I lay our souls bare and talk about our plan, hopes and fears.

Day-to-day, I don’t tell any of them how much I really love them. We’re too busy, we have deadlines, we have bills, we have work. But in the car, there’s a difference. It’s where I can say “I hear you. I see you. I love you”without even having to say it at all.

 

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