After years of relying on my husband to drive, getting behind the wheel felt like starting over. Then my neighbor felt he had the right to tell me where I could and couldn’t go.
The little plastic card felt heavier than it should have, sitting in my hand like a passport to a place I’d never been.
I was sixty years old and finally had my driver’s license.
I sat in the front seat of my old Chevrolet in the city hall parking lot, adjusted the mirror for the third time, and burst out laughing, surprising me. Paul would have made fun of me for waiting so long to get it out.
The little plastic card felt heavier than it should have.
My husband had been dead for two years. Forty-one years of marriage, and he’d driven every mile.
“Are you planning to sit there all afternoon, or are we going for coffee?”
Stella’s voice came through the open window. My best friend from our insurance days was leaning against her car with the same smile she’d had since we met.
He’d driven it every mile.
“I’m savoring the moment,” I said.
“Engine stall.”
“Sa-vo-ring.”
“Carol, honey, the car has to start moving for it to count.”
I checked my mirrors again. Both. Twice.
Stella tapped the roof and laughed.
“Oh my God. You’re going to be one of those grandmas who goes 40 km/h to 45 km/h, aren’t you?”
“Fifty km/h to 55 km/h, thank you very much!”
“Engine stall.”
