/lit/ - Literature

And finally we were trundled by compressing time out to the driveway, I lagging under the weight of the dragged suitcase, Mom tacking quickly over the concrete on wood-soled träskors and ushering me along behind her urgent wake, her free hand wagging out behind her to beckon me forward and take hold of it, the other clasped around the strap of a hobo bag, Dad hustling up the rear after a quick diversion back into the house for his forgotten wallet. He pushed the black, ribbed turtlemock’s sleeves up over his forearms, thick with an unusual amount of brawn for a civics teacher, and smoothed the hem of the shirt over his jeans. The veiny rawhide of his arms flexed and buckled as he twisted the key in and out of the woodie doors of the Villager Wagon, Mom hanging off one of those forearms with a wide smile as he guided her into the passenger seat, unable to close even both of her hands around it. He whisked me and my bag around to the other side of the car with a single arm and a toothy, gritted grin, groaning like a turboprop, flipped his seatback forward, then flung us both on the rear bench seat as I squealed with glee. He torqued the ignition over. Mom attacked the radio dial, hoping to hear her song yet again.