Time creeps up slowly but unmistakably in layers of rot, weed and dust on grandpa's car.
The tires are the first to go. There's a brick propped behind each rusted steel hub. The brilliant cobalt of
the bonnet has given way to splotches of decay. The windowpanes are stuck halfway and the fractured iron skeleton
of the seats pokes through the frayed fabric.
As a boy visiting my grandparents I had often sat in the back of this car, my engine voice turned all the way up,
as grandpa drove over meandering mud lanes and cut a path across the...
Today I peer into the rear-view mirror and wonder how has time crept up on me? The twinkle and wonder
that my eyes once held are lost in a web of wrinkles, crow's feet and flecks of grey.
a jet exhaust unzips