A memory of my youth, and the maturing bond between father and son.

It was a ‘67 Olds 98, huge and beautiful with a gold body and a fake black leather roof,

seats big as couches.

As a teen I used to wait for my dad outside at night and he’d take me to the driveway of the garages and I’d drive it in.

One night he came down the street the wrong way, he slid over and said “you drive”.

I got behind the wheel, looked at him, he said “go”.

I drove up 52nd up to Skilman, my heart pounding as I saw the view of Manhattan in the distance.

He smiled and said “go”.

I drove us all the way down that big hill almost to the 59th st bridge.

Then we turned around onto Queens Boulevard, the el on our left and rush hour traffic on our right until he said “let’s go home”.

We got home.

He turned to me and smiled, handing me my own set of keys.

It was then I realized that he had just put his hand on my back and gently but firmly, planted my wings.