You're listening to WLT.

Oh, bro.

Homemade radio.

When I was 15, before I was even allowed to drive, I used to stay up waiting until my dad

parked his Mazda RX-7 in the driveway after a late night at work.

Once he was safely in the kitchen with his beer and sandwich, I would slip out the backdoor

and climb into the driver's seat of the Mazda, the engine still warm, humming, and clicking

from his drive home.

I would get myself all set up like I was about to start the car and back out into the street.

I moved the seat forward, punched buttons on the radio, imagined jazz creeping out of

the speakers.

I'd buckle my seat belt, adjust the mirror, and pretend to turn the key in the ignition.

I pushed out the clutch, shifted into reverse, wrapped an arm around the back of the passenger

seat, and cramed my neck back at the empty driveway.

I imagined backing out slowly, the wilted flowers of the crepe myrtle in our front yard

brushing against the roof, and slipping out into the quiet northern Virginia streets.

Cruising past the dark houses and sprinklered lawns, losing myself, and the sound of swaying

symbols and muted trumpets, an imaginary cigarette dangling from my teenage fingers.

No particular destination in mind.

Just generally, on my way, somewhere.

If you've been listening to family ghosts since the beginning, you know that my entire life

changed in that red Mazda.

...