By Sandra J. Bouman
“What’s this?” I wondered, stretching up on my toes to reach a small box wedged in the back corner of the top shelf. It was closet cleaning day. It had been too long, and I had been too busy. This year’s spring cleaning was happening in July. But, at least it was getting done at all.
I gripped the edge of the dusty box with the tips of my fingers and eased it slowly toward me. It was much lighter than I expected. I pulled the box down with too much momentum and lost my balance. Falling backwards, I landed on my backside, clutching the box to my chest. A cloud of dust let loose around my head. I didn’t know whether to swear or laugh. I split the difference and coughed. In the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, the dust might have been glitter.
“You better have something good in there,” I warned the box, frowning down at it. It was an old shoe box—not my style and not my size—but it didn’t feel heavy enough to contain any shoes. I couldn’t remember putting that box in the closet, never mind what was inside. Curiosity got the better of me, so not even getting up from where I landed on the floor, I removed the lid.
I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it wasn’t this. There were only two items in the box—a photograph and a piece of crimson cloth. I clasped a hand over my mouth.
“Grandma’s scarf!” I exclaimed. I couldn’t believe it. I was devastated when I thought I had lost it, but it was in my closet this whole time. I didn’t even need to see the photo to remember the first time I saw that red scarf. Gingerly lifting the silky fabric from the box, I let it flow through my fingers like liquid. I brought it to my nose and inhaled the scent of my childhood. Stale cigarettes, Chanel No. 5, and the breezes of beautiful summers riding with the top down.
Still clutching the scarf, I plucked the photo from the box. The colors had faded, but not my memory. Smiling up from the picture, wearing the very same red scarf over freshly styled hair, was my grandmother. She had on thick-rimmed black sunglasses, a cardigan she had crocheted herself, and brilliant red lipstick to match the scarf—and the car. Red was always Grandma’s favorite color. She said it made her feel stronger. You couldn’t be anything but bold wearing red.
I would never forget the first time Grandma pulled into the driveway in that cherry red convertible. I closed my eyes, and I could see it all.
It had only been summer vacation for two days and the novelty had already worn off. I spent my allowance that week on film for my hand-me-down camera, but even my newfound passion of photography wasn’t enough to keep the boredom at bay. I was not so patiently waiting for a bee to land on a begonia for the perfect shot when I heard tires on the pavement slow to a stop. I looked up. My jaw dropped.
“Wanna go for a ride?” Grandma asked, as if she hadn’t left the house that morning in her beat-up old station wagon. In reality, Grandma had saved up to get herself a well-deserved sixtieth birthday present, but at eight years old, it seemed like a fairy tale. Grandma left in a pumpkin and came back in a magic carriage. I had only ever seen a convertible on television. It had never occurred to me that they might be real. It was so shiny it looked like it was on fire, and I could see myself in the hubcaps. I set my camera on the porch and ran over to the car.
“Well?” Grandma asked again, adjusting her scarf and checking her lipstick in the rearview mirror, “Wanna go for a ride?”
I nodded, speechless. Grandma leaned over to open the passenger door. I reached for the handle and stared at her.
“Wait a minute,” I said, before opening the door. I ran back to the porch to grab my camera. She looked like a movie star, and I wanted to keep that moment forever. Grandma flashed her winning smile, and I snapped a picture. She laughed and patted the red vinyl seat next to her.
“Hop in, honey,” she said, so I did.
My grandmother was the epitome of grace—all lipstick and perfume and Saturday mornings at the salon. She exuded ease and joy, and though I knew better now, she always made life seem so effortless. She was a breath of fresh air and everything I could have ever hoped to be when I grew up. I, on the other hand, was in the middle of an awkward growth spurt—all barrettes and freckles and scrapes on scrawny knees. Together, we were quite the pair. We were “ride or die” before either of us knew what that meant.
Every day for the rest of that summer, as well as the ten summers that came after, Grandma would pull up to the house with the convertible top down, scarf in her hair, and a gleam in her eyes. And she always said the same two words: “Wanna ride?”
Of course, I always said yes. Grandma could turn anything into an adventure. She drove me all the way to the beach to see the ocean for the first time in that car, but it felt just as special to go to the ice cream parlor in town for a hot fudge sundae or even to the store down the street for groceries and an hour in line at the pharmacy. She would tell stories both real and make-believe, and I would try to capture it all with my camera. Photography turned out to not be my calling, but she made me feel like I could do anything. She was my biggest fan and my best friend.
We put miles and miles on that speedometer, Grandma and I. We went everywhere and nowhere. Sometimes, we didn’t even leave the driveway. She brewed sun tea in jars in the cup holders on hot days and had anything you could ever need tucked into the glove compartment. That car was an extension of my grandmother. She put as much pride into its appearance as she did her own. Not a hair out of place and not a bug on the windshield. Sunrises and sunsets; rainstorms and rainbows. We saw it all in that car, and she wore that scarf whenever she drove it.
She taught me to drive in that convertible and didn’t get mad when I dinged the bumper on a mailbox. She let me borrow it to impress a date who gave me my first kiss. She picked me up without question after an ill-advised party didn’t end well. She showed me how to live without fear and how to love without question. How to change a flat tire and how to mend a broken heart. That woman, that car, and that scarf—they taught me how to be me.
On the very last day of my eighteenth summer, Grandma pulled into the driveway to take me to college in that red car. When she arrived, she did something I had never seen her do in the convertible before. She removed the scarf. Without a word, she pressed it into my hand—along with the keys to the car. I stared at her in disbelief. She nodded.
“Thanks for the ride, Grandma,” was all I could say through the tears as she pulled me in for a hug.
I opened my eyes. A bubble of nostalgia caught in my throat. I could almost feel her arms around me as I put the photograph back in the box. I went to place the scarf on top, but something changed my mind. Instead, I folded the scarlet scarf into a triangle, draped it across the back of my head, and tied the ends under my chin. I pulled my phone from the pocket of my overalls to check my reflection. Although, instead of taking a selfie, I made a phone call. It rang for a while—almost too long. I was about to hang up when I heard a soft “Hello?” from the other end of the line.
A grin spread across my face, and I tightened the scarf. I glanced at the keys hanging on the hook in the hallway.
“Grandma?” I asked, “Wanna go for a ride?”