Age 5: I let him sit in the driver’s seat. He could barely see over the steering wheel, and he made car sounds while he steered hard to the left, then banked hard to the right. He turned every knob on the radio dial, flipped on the turn signal, and startled himself when he turned on the windshield wipers. I snapped a picture of him that day, his smile as big as the moon.
Say it’s only a paper moon
Sailing over a cardboard sea
But it wouldn’t be make-believe
If you believed in me
Age 15: After church one Sunday, we stayed late to practice in the parking lot. Over and over, he practiced pulling into a parking spot, opening the door to see if he stayed within the yellow lines. Most of the time he nailed it. Sometimes he’d swing out too far, overcorrect, and end up cattywampus. He was sure he’d never get the hang of it. I knew he’d have thousands more opportunities to practice.
Yes, it’s only a canvas sky
Hanging over a muslin tree
But it wouldn’t be make-believe
If you believed in me
Age 16: “Wanna go for a drive?” I looked forward to these evenings during the pandemic, when we felt trapped inside, tired of staying at home, working at home, going to school at home. Just as the sun was starting to dip, my son would invite me for a car ride. I was happy to sit in the passenger seat with the window all the way down, my arm hanging lazily over the door. We’d take turns choosing the tunes. I’d play Van Morrison and Aretha Franklin; he introduced me to Lizzy McAlpine and Elliot Smith. We were stuck at home, but during those car rides, we felt free.
Without your love
It’s a honky tonk parade
Without your love
It’s a melody played in a penny arcade
Age 21: Tonight he took me for a spin in his new car. His dad helped him negotiate the price, check under the hood, and ask sensible questions about gas mileage. When he sits in the driver’s seat, I see flashes of the five-year-old boy, making car noises as he grips the wheel. I’ve been driving this boy around for so long that I’ve probably clocked a thousand miles within the confines of this town. Now it’s my turn to be in the back seat while his sister excitedly sits shotgun. He adjusts the seat and the mirrors. They will stay that way because this is his car now. He asks us what we want to hear on the stereo, but it only seems fitting that he chooses the music for his inaugural ride. He is and always has been an old soul living in a young body, so he cues up Frank Sinatra, peak Fedora-wearing Frank from the 1961 Swingin’ Session. “It’s Only a Paper Moon” pours out of the speakers like liquid gold.
It’s a Barnum and Bailey world
Just as phony as it can be
But it wouldn’t be make-believe
If you believed in me
