Looking-Back Smile

We were chasing each other through the woods, behind the old neighborhood where your parents still live. I was heaving with bent-over laughter, trying to catch up to your looking-back smile, and then you disappeared into that opening where the sun used to break through during our childhood Summers, shimmering across strained mirrors and chrome plated bumpers of long forgotten broken down cars. When I saw you, leaning against the flaked hood of our old rusty green car, chin resting in the palm of your hand, beautiful shine written across your face, you were reaching through a missing windshield shaking that bent steering wheel, reminding me this was the place where we learned to drive. A place where the musty smell of rain-soaked vinyl and dried oil, doors fused shut by seasons of rust and stillness, and tireless dreams would take us anywhere we wanted to go. We drove a thousand miles and back on one tank of gas, leaning into curves so tight that I could smell the soap your mother used on shirts, and you would push me away with an elbow, never even taking your eyes off the road. I pressed the pedals and you changed the gears, because you said you were older, and I said ladies always go first. Except when we drove along the beaches, moving slowly in white, low tide sand, so you could toss breadcrumbs to the Seagulls, worrying over whether each one got a meal. I would say, let’s go see some city lights, where you could look out the window, and blow fake kisses to people standing on the sidewalk, and you would say, one more ride down the boulevard please, just one more. Then one day you turned and blew a kiss at me, knowing that I couldn’t tell if it was fake or real, so you pressed the palm of your hand to my cheek, and I felt dizzy because your lotion was so strong. That was close to the time we spent an entire afternoon, cruising the back-roads, searching for the cat you found that didn’t come home for three days. The one you cuddled and kissed, and wouldn’t let anyone hold. The one your father chased through every bedroom of the house, until its claws got tangled in a bedspread, and he tossed it right out the back door - blanket, pillows, and all. You snatched up the blanket, eyes puffy and red, throwing it over a low hanging limb like you were setting up a new home. You cried for a solid hour, until I got quiet, and you started a pillow fight under that homemade tent, feathers flying across the yard like a flock of white moths. Summers later, you finally let me drive first, so you could ride past your friends, waving with sunglasses, tossing your head back like a famous movie star. You always knew that when I changed gears fast, pressing the pedals hard to the floor, we were heading to open road, where you would lean out the window, turning your arms like airplane wings, glancing over at me with a playful grin, hoping that I would notice how beautiful you looked. And I would turn on the South road, where we would drive across long bridges, to islands that were lit by small flames, holding on to each other’s arm like we were never coming back. And when we did we made a promise, knowing that some turns in the road may take us on a different path, we would never forget the rides we took in that old green car.