The Last Ride
A Micro Fiction Story
Copyright 2019 All Rights Reserved
I walk into the garage. I can’t stop the tears when I see it. I don’t even try. My dad’s car. It is a classic, and my dad’s very first car. The car he dated my mom in, the car I was conceived in (if one believed the stories my parents told), the car I was born in, the car he gifted to me when I was just sixteen, the car he took care of for me when only six months later I turned seventeen and joined the Marines, because I had to protect my nation from the enemy, for they had attacked our civilians, and the car he should be handing me the keys to now, eight years later, that I am home, from the war.
I didn’t want to come home like this; I didn’t want to be called just a few weeks before the end of my tour to come home because of this reason. I turned away from the car when a throat cleared behind me.
There stood my fiancé, in his dress blues, he handed me a compact mirror. I opened it and looked into it, my red eyes contrasted with the dark dress blues; they made my normally tanned skin look as pale as a ghost.
“Honey, it is time to go.” He stated as he came to hold my hand.
I nod and go to get in the car. “He should hear it one last time. After all, it is been around for all his major moments, it should be in the procession to his final resting spot.”
My husband just got in and was the silent support I need as I say my last good bye, in the car’s last ride, to my dad.