We’re all there, gathered in the yard to see the brand-new Olds my father bought straight off the showroom floor. Our smiles flicker in chrome, stretch sideways on the bumper to express our joy. The women too crowd close, sniff plush leather seats, run fingers over plastic trays and handles to exclaim, It’s so beautiful! while neighbors crush to ogle tinted glass, sporty visor beetle-browed across the windshield. It’s another age, one in which an acquisition — dryer, TV, Frigidaire — brings people running, struck with postwar glut, still hungry from the long Depression. We shuffle up to fondle tires, pop the trunk and wiggle in, then skid across upholstery on our buttocks. It seems we’re rich, my parents happy, still young. It’s summer. Voices filter through our trellis; mowers drone as light rebounds across the hood. When the others leave, I slither up behind the wheel, gaze into its bright transparent hub, wonder at the blue metallic background set with stars, Saturn with its chrome rings shining. Right there: I’m sitting right there. In all these years, I haven’t moved.