grassy field with rust
I'd heard about the old car, three miles out of town and all alone. I just had to see it. It was time. School was over for the summer, my friends were at camp, and I was bored. I set out Thursday morning for a hike, following directions that Uncle Will had given me. As the heat was still growing with the climb of the sun, I found the field and wandered around looking, and looking some more, trying not to be distracted by bees buzzing in the flowers, and butterflies and baby mice. Then it was there, just a bit upslope from the bottom of a natural swale, and just below the sky at the top of the bank. A 1959 Cadillac convertible, but not like the old music videos showed.
This one was part buried in grass gone to seed and turned almost white golden with the dry heat. The tires were collapsed cracked pieces and there wasn't a trace of pink paint anywhere. Rust owned it, and it held on so tight that holes were showing in what used to be steel. The top was gone except for some brownish red channels and rods.
It was grand.
The biggest car I ever saw. And the farthest gone. Like some river barge stranded when the stream changed course and left it on top of drying mud that grass returned to. Uncle Will had said that the Caddy was already more than thirty years old when Dave Jenkins ran off the road being chased by the Sheriff for having no taillights, but maybe carrying weed. Some of its old pieces had broken, and Dave was arrested and didn't have any money anyway and here the car still was after all these years.
The breeze blew soft, the grass moved slow and easy, and the old car was peaceful, and comforting to watch. It just seemed right that things were the way they were. I fell asleep. Later I woke up and walked home, thinking for awhile, that the past was okay just the way it was.