It’s odd what you remember.
I remember a car, which is particularly odd as I am not a car person. I barely notice them, and I hate to drive.
But ohhhh I remember this one. It was chocolate brown and long, so endlessly long, its sleek hood curving up and sliding down to its wide metal face.
It was a Toronado. I even loved to say it, over and over, letting its name roll over my tongue with languor.
How could I forget? I was eight.
One of the few good things my mother had to say about my father was what a good driver he was, a defensive one. He always said a long car saved his life late one night when a ditch slid silently before him on a dark road.
“I’ll never let you drive a Volkswagen,” he said, but I did, long after he was gone. Deep in the recesses of my mind I was always aware that it was not a Toronado, that I was not truly safe the way I had been, wrapped in its steely brown grasp.
He would drive up with a wide smile and park it so I could invite my friends to come in, to sit in the driver’s seat and move the shiny controls which made the seats slide with a slow lazy buzz and the windows lower as if by magic.
No one’s father had a car like this one except mine. It’s odd what you remember.