CONTEST WINNER - GIRLS CAN'T DRIVE by Lynette Tucker
He snatched my car and ran.
“Girls can’t play with cars.”
I was five; he was eight.
“Daddy says I can.”
Mommy made him give it back.
Brother relented.
“Hand me a screwdriver.”
His soapbox racer was blue.
Mine, of course, was pink.
Nobody messed with his little sister.
Checkered flag.
We had matching trophies on the mantle.
“You sure about this?”
“Yeah, you drive the front, I got the back.”
Chain race at the fairgrounds.
Smashed metal, bruised egos.
Laughter all around.
Young hearts take chances.
“I found a matching set.”
They were vintage, parked on the curb.
Car show in six months.
Late nights, oil smudges.
Big brother hugs, baby sister smiles.
Who said, “girls can’t drive”?
