Wishbone

We traveled cross-country by car every year. From New York to Utah, from Utah back to upstate New York. Every summer, the drive took days, endless scorching hot summer days. Our mother made sandwiches before we left and put them in an icebox underneath our feet. She placed a large round thermos with lemonade in the back of the station wagon, wedged between suitcases, next to a paper bag filled with paper cups and paper plates. At gas stations our father wiped a thousand flattened bugs from the windshield. Our mother rubbed ice on the back of her neck. “Maybe we’ll stop early tonight, stay in a motel with a pool. Would you kids like that?” she said. “Yes,” we said, all four of us—three girls and one boy—as we marched in place to stretch our legs, as we slid the dime into the silver slot to open the door of the gas station restroom, the stench of others’ bodies barreling out. We helped ourselves to the lemonade in the back of the station wagon, holding the waxy cup underneath the hopeful spigot, waiting—we were always waiting then—for our small cups to fill up. I was the youngest in our … Continue reading Wishbone