In the copper toned Ford,
we sat without seatbelts
on the covered bench seat.
Country music hummed
on the AM radio
and the gravel rustled
beneath the worn tires.
He sat stern,
one hand on the wheel
one reaching for a beer.
He told us fibs
and historical candor,
because he knew
we believed all his truths
until we fell into a slumber
caused by the miles
of travel from home.
But in the ascent
of his tall tales,
a small pause occurred.
A fellow wanderer
pushing up dust
in the opposite direction
would cause my dad
to raise a finger
from his grasp on the
wheel, signaling an
understanding
of respect for the road
rattling beneath their stories.
He didn’t know all passers
yet they all received this hello
in between dad’s fibs
and old country hums.
