Urbana

I had my designated seat. Back. Behind the driver. My feet couldn't even touch the ground, but I always had enough leg room.

My brother was planted in the seat next to me, either chatting non-stop or asleep with his eyes half open. It's a creepy habit.

Quickly buzzing along the highway, I stared into the sky. Car rides home from Urbana were always hooded with dark, speckled skies. I spent most of the ride convincing myself I'd seen a shooting star.

Though the drive was long, dead, boring, I rarely fell asleep. WLW radio murmered in the background. Another Sunday, another baseball game. Another dull ride.

The voices were as predictable as my father's smoke drifting out the window and into the back seat. This predictability was what made such an imprint on my six-year-old brain. I could rely on three things on the drive home to Cincinnati: the choking scent of smoke, the not-so-bad scent of skunk and the constant drone of WLW commentators giving their 12 cents (not two--they never stopped talking) about the Reds game.

Though we were constantly moving forward, those night drives felt still. Calm. We had all been together as a family. I had just eaten wilted lettuce salad and Breyer's vanilla bean ice cream. My parents had played seemingly endless rounds of uchre. I'd stolen the olives from my grandpa's martini. Funny that no one had an issue with that. In fact, it was applauded, laughed at.

I wish that we could go back in time 14 years. Dad would be happier. Papaw would be healthy. Mamaw would be alive. And we'd all be driving back, full, happy, calm.