The last fall we lived in Waynesboro we spent most weekends at Hilton Head. Friday nights found my dad at the steering wheel, my mom beside him, and Bill, Jon and me in the back seat on the highway to the coast.
Outside the roads were dark, AM radio filled the inside of the car, the 5 of us too tired for much talk. We’d driven this road so many times. The car seemed to know the way.
Riding in the back our heads nodded to our shoulders, dozing to the dark and the hum of the road. Til the hum gave way to tires slowing against a grassy shoulder seconds before the bumper met the fence.
Somehow my dad missed the turn. Too long a week. Together Bill and I giggled. Our dad always did everything right. Between us tears rolled down Jon’s cheeks.
For the remainder of the drive the car was even quieter. We crossed the bridge on to the island and after a short time pulled on to the gravel drive. Home.
a string of days 