Car Wash

When I was a little girl, my mom would drive to the DIY car wash and make a day of it. I was in charge of quarters and would rush up to the coin slot right in the nick of time to get our next 7 minutes before we'd have to pay double for the cycle to begin again. When I wasn't manning the quarters, I'd run from one side of the open garage to the other and feel the mist of the hose on my skin, always soothing on a hot summer day. Sometimes my mom would play along, soaking me till I was dripping and I was gripping my sides to contain the giggles. Other times, I'd occupy myself by throwing rocks on the train tracks that neighbored the car wash or explore the adjoining empty lot, overgrown with dandelions, making wishes and pretending I was in a totally different world. Then we'd vacuum out the car, tossing out petrified french fries, saving nickles and dimes and admiring a job well done. Afterwards, maybe we'd go straight home or she'd treat me to an ice cream cone. Nothing reminds me of hot days more than a trip to the car wash.