Fall of 1974
I was conceived on the night my parents met.
Dad had offered to drive Mom home after tennis class. Under the glow of the parking lot lights, his vintage 1940s Ford pickup gleamed, its deep green paint catching her eye. Mom was immediately charmed. It was his prized possession so seeing the impressed reaction on her face, he beamed and reached for her hand.
She wasn’t ready for the night to end. They’d felt that spark of connection the moment he handed her the tennis ball, and she had loved the way he patiently showed her how to properly hit it whenever they’d been paired up in class. Couldn’t they just drive around a little longer? Dad didn’t need to be asked twice. He threw the truck into gear, one hand on the wheel, the other slipping easily around her shoulders as he pulled her close. The cab smelled like the smooth leather seats, his musky cologne, and a hint of the peppermint gum he always chewed.
They passed the apple orchard first, its branches half-stripped from the season’s final pickings, the ground below littered with fermenting fruit. The air was heavy with sweetness, drifting in through the open window. Mom felt lightheaded, almost intoxicated—though she’d given up drinking when she started reading the Bible. This must be what they mean by ‘love at first sight,’ Mom thought, butterflies kicking up a whirlwind inside her. Then came the pear trees, their leaves beginning to curl at the edges, surrendering to the shift in seasons. She leaned her head against Dad’s shoulder as they cruised past, the hum of the engine helping to steady her racing heart while the last rays of a fall sunset melted into the distance.
