First Love


I was sixteen when I met the lady. She was dark and statuesque, and her beauty was classic. She seemed to watch me closely as I approached. Although I felt my inexperience strongly I was soon quite at ease. She was twenty-one, a two-door sedan with white spoked wheels, and wore the traditional black paint favored by Mr. Ford. I must say that I was in awe of her, for she was not without a reputation. But she was everything I wanted, and any difference in age or experience only made her the more interesting to me. She became the most important thing in my life, and I could not do enough for her.

Coming in late at night, I heard more and more talk from my parents concerning homework, yard-work, the neighbors yard-work, the effect that lack of sleep might have on my health, but nothing could dissuade me from attending to the needs of my first love; adjusting points, balancing wheels, changing oil. When I wasn't touching her, I was thinking of it; when I wasn't gazing at her, I was dreaming of that mature and lovely body.

The covetous glances of my peers swelled me with pride, for she was mine. There were no misunderstandings. I was both fulfilled and entranced. It is not too much to say that she flavored my life, and set me apart as an individual; I had a feeling of worth. I cannot say she made me into a man, but I was taken from the world of bicycles and boys and shown new vistas, wonderful sights and sounds and aromas of meadows, oceans, snowdrifts, forests, parties...girls! The latter discovery was not a cause for jealousy, for my first love made them feel welcome and at home. Her doors opened wide, her dash gleamed brightly, her radio murmured gentle serenades (and rhythm and blues), the soft carpeting I gave her was more than ready to snuggle more delicate toes than mine.


A boy's best friend, someone said, is his mother; a mother probably said it. I will give the ladies that one, but when it comes to first love I give the prize to a car. She was my friend and refuge, a place to go and a means by which to go. She was a magic carpet that smelled of gas and oil, Windex and Turtle Wax, Avon and Old Spice and Bob's Big Boy's and drive-in movie popcorn and beer spilled on the seat by a friend that I was mad at for a week.

There would be many such alliances for me, the love-affairs between almost-man and more-than-machine, some deep and passionate, some shallow and fleeting. But none would ever mean so much, or shine so brilliantly in my memory as that first love. My beloved 1932 Ford, black, ageless, predictable (sometimes not), but always mine. She gave wings to my flight from adolescence with the gifts of independence, companionship, and mobility. Could a mother do more?

Want to comment on this Flash Fiction? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Flash Fiction and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...