1 minute read
Starlight
When I come to visit he often begins by asking who I am. On good days he asks about my mom, his wife, who died twenty years ago. Or goes off
about DiMaggio who’s the greatest all-around player the game’s ever seen or Robinson who could turn into
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a pretty good infielder someday. Pee Wee too, the best damned shortstop in the National League.
But somehow we always return to that Studebaker Starlight, the one, he laughs, pointed at each end like a rocket
ship so you never know if you’re coming or going. One of the first cars with push-button shifting automatic transmission
push-button shifting set right into the dash. Taught your mother to drive in that car. His eyes look
at the withered elm just outside his window. Say, if I could just get out of this bed, we could go out to the garage,
take her for a spin. What do you say? I always tell him the same thing: that it’s in the shop for repairs. Next time, he says, next time.
Richard Luftig
