Tank

I used to refer to Papa's old car as "tank." When I was four, he showed up with the blue steed. I remember the sheer delight in taking the driver seat feigning my first drive. 

I did not quite realize that it was actually a flying carpet.  

My parents were enroute to the city when a mishap took place. Seeking to avoid a fatal head on collision, my father swerved off the road falling fourteen feet vertically from a bridge.

My Mama's instinct turned to prayer: "Lord, my children still need me ...

The Ford tank landed on all fours with a cracked windshield. Papa had a broken nose; Mama had compressed disc. With alien tenacity, the car restarted and took them back home to tell its story. 

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