In my father's two car garage sits an aging and badly injured black 58 Chevy. The car was part of the family before I was and my childhood would not have been the same without it. When I was four, the car was shiny, sharp, and in near perfect running condition. I was entranced by its form, speed, and smell. I would spend many of my childhood weekends on my dad's shoulders at car shows. The smell of exhaust and reeving engines on summer days in South Brooklyn are not a nuisance to me, but a bitter sweet reminder of vast concrete lots and sun winking at my from the hoods of finely polished cars. The 58 Chevy became a rare treat in late childhood. The car would come out every few months and my dad would take me for a spin down the long and empty avenues of our isolated town. There were no seat belts in the back seat, which was made of a smooth, slippery leather. If a friend was over, she would come in the car too. As my dad drove we would slide across the seat with the momentum of the car, and for fun would play it up by flailing and laughing and pushing. The car was classy enough to drive me to a few school dances, and the other dads would look at it with equal amounts of jealousy and intrigue. I do not remember the last time the 58 was taken out for a ride before Hurricane Sandy's salty waves rotted her insides. It's been years since we've gone to a car show, and although I can no longer enjoy them from my father's shoulders, I look forward to seeing the 58 roll into one again

– Allyson Gonzalez

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