My nose still feels the burn of the smoke from my grandma’s cheap cigarette as it wafted through the air of her white 1994 Mercury Sable. I was a boy about seven or eight, sitting in the back seat with a barbecue sandwich, sweet slaw, and cornbread in an oily wrapper, my school clothes ruined by vinegar, grease, and sweet tea. Grandma was not mad about it. When I told her, “I love you,” she said, “I love you, too, angel.” She meant it. The plate on the front of her car read, “Let me tell you about my grandchildren.”
Tyler Stocks works at an airport and writes in his spare time.