When I was five years old, my dad took me to a car show in the parking lot of a suburban strip mall.

He picked me up from soccer practice in his red fast car, and we drove really fast around every turn. My dad worked at NASA and his little mid-engined spaceship would soar past the moon if he let it.

The fifteen minute drive down Pearl Road took all day. We passed corn, St. Ambrose church & St. Ambrose school, Putt-Putt mini golf & ice cream shop, churches and corn and churches. My eyes followed the white line. My ears tuned to the engine and the wind, harmonizing with every shift. The sky was ice cream blue.

We pulled into the beige strip mall on the other side of town. My dad and I hopped out and walked around.

The clouds were Kirby pink. They puffed up and blew across the sky. I scanned the lot; some cars were long and sharp, some short and tall, some with big engines, others small. We picked through them all, tossing out muscle cars like dried up orange slices on the cracked and tarred asphalt.

He stopped and talked to someone about the dark-stained wooden interior in their old Buick. I listened.

I cupped my hands to the window of a shiny silver Scirocco. The original sales sign sat on the passenger’s gunmetal seat.

The horizon was rocket engine orange and he pointed to a yellow Kissel turning into the lot. My eyes followed his finger.

“Those are rare,” he smiled, adjusting his glasses. “You don’t see one of those everyday.”