Learning to drive...
I am learning how to drive. I'm behind the wheel of my dad's rusty powder blue 55 Chevy truck. It's cold outside and there is nowhere for the wind to catch. The fields are empty of corn and the brown dry land is flat as far as the eye can see. The sky is the same color as the truck, opaque and much bigger than us. The country roads, the color of pencil lead, are old and worn and familiar, like my dad's hands. The truck is stubborn and I have to learn her ways. I grip the steering wheel tight. My dad rolls down his window and throws his empty can of Busch into the ditch and cracks open another one from the green Coleman cooler between us. He lights a Pal Mal with his Zippo (click clack) and leaves the window cracked, which makes a whistling sound. He puts the soft red pack of smokes back into his front shirt pocket. Corn husks scurry across the road. It smells like gasoline and cigarettes and cold air. He tells me I am doing great. I don't yet trust myself, but I trust my dad.