Almost everyone calls my car "The Couch." It is a 1999 Lincoln town car, butterscotch with a brown cloth cover roof. Maybe a touch" pip daddy "for most people's taste, but I have grown to love it. You see, the couch was my fathers car.

My father passed away last summer. A month or so later, when we were sorting out his possessions my mother remarked "we have to sell that thing." I took the keys, smiled, and made his car mine. At first it was a bit odd driving it. You see the couch floats rather than rides. It is no BMW. This is a good thing, because the magic is in the floating.

The couch at times transforms me. I slip into a trance, aware of external world and aware of the trance I am in. It's an in between place, not spacey, quite grounded actually. Here, in this state, in this car, I am never alone. I am my father's chauffeur.

I loved my father deeply, but I didn't always listen very well, and was often dismissive. Fortunately he also loved me and has remarkable patience. Patient enough to wait for me. For most others, he has passed on in an ordinary way. For me that is just not so. He lives most the time in my driveway, waiting patiently, for our ride together.

He is calling, time to get the keys.

Brando