They called her Betsy – a white Chevy that took them from school to jobs to grocery shops when it was too cold to walk. In the summer, she’d be the car they crammed into; 6 siblings, 2 parents and a dog. Their dad kept to empty backroads, the dust of the hard dirt pouring through the windows as they traversed the rollercoaster of hills. He called them shortcuts as he tore down lanes rarely travelled and it seemed to be hours longer then any highways they could take.

Years later, Besty passed through children to grandchildren, a car fit only for the farm. There we did donuts in empty fields raising dust like our grandfather. Our feet tucked up on torn seats, we stared down at the absent floor of the car to the ground rushing below. She lasted one more summer, a child’s plaything, before becoming a set of spare parts, a rusted frame.