50 years ago.
“Load up!” The familiar command to hop in the back seat. Business in town.
Bud’s exhale “God damn hippies” combats my silent intrigue as we pass so many sitting on the wall. Three miles, though an entire atmosphere away from home.
The mood is lifted as Bud’s head flips acknowledgment toward on old friend walking beneath the arcade.
Attention now, the tone of a chant streaming through the car’s open window. Peace signs, held by people trickling down the steps of the Bank of America. “Hey Bud! There’s grandma and grandad!” A sudden acceleration throwing our backs to the seat as we head out.