Gravel Road Sunday

My grandpa taught me to drive on the gravel road behind his farm in a pickup older than my mother. I was twelve. I could barely see over the dashboard.

He sat beside me with the window down and his elbow out, chewing on a piece of grass, totally calm while I lurched along at eight miles per hour. "Ease up, ease up," he said, "the corn isn't going anywhere."

This year my niece turned twelve and visited the farm, which my uncle runs now. The same truck still starts, mostly. I took her out on the same road. I rolled the window down. I stuck my elbow out. I found a piece of grass.

She lurched. She squealed. I said "Ease up, the corn isn't going anywhere," and heard my grandpa's voice in my own mouth. Some things you get to pass down that aren't in any will.