The hinges protested loudly as I pushed and pulled to open the doors of my grandfather's old barn, but finally they were swung wide. I peered into the interior, the dust motes swirling and glittering in the sunlight. The center of the barn had been commandeered long ago by my grandfather's pride and joy, while the tractor and the combine rusted in the fields. It still sat, waiting under a dust cover, for a man who would never come again. I felt like a groom reaching hesitantly and slowly pulling the cover to the side. The gleaming red of the 1969 Cadillac El Dorado convertible was revealed. I stood quietly, my hand on the door. With no more oil or gas to be found, the car was nothing more than a boat-sized paperweight, yet my grandfather had always refused to sell it for scrap. Instead, he cherished the dinosaur, polishing the chrome for hours every Sunday after the family dinners. I had spent hours here, curled up on the backseat, while he polished every inch of the car. He took me hurtling down back roads, the wind scouring away sins, small and large, until, my grandfather said, he felt as though he had been licked clean by the rough tongue of a cat, and he felt lighter than the air.
I stared at the driver's seat and saw my grandfather, with his hands on the wheel, smiling at me, his eyes twinkling, his laughter resonating in my heart. And I wept.
DINOSAUR
This is fiction. While I would love to own such a car, I'd be afraid to drive it!
