UNENCUMBERED
Riding in the back of a truck on hot, summer evenings was an exciting way to treat small-town children to some cool air after inferno-like days. My friends and I would have spent all the hours we were allowed at the swimming pool. Come home, barely eat our dinner to save room for ice cream later, and assess the pink or brown tones of our skin. In my case, usually, it was red tones that later peeled and often needed chilled aloe vera. I could never be bothered to put on sunscreen. My nose and my lips were grotesquely damaged many of the days each summer until I reached the age where not looking like a scabby troll mattered to me because I had crushes. Suddenly, applying that SPF was effortless.
When it was time for ice cream, I'd get to hop in the back of daddy's truck, sometimes with a neighborhood friend. Mom instructed Dad never to go too fast. She was always concerned one of us would fall out. But even if he was creeping along at Sunday speeds, the warm, summery smells of the air were breezy and felt like the most satisfying quench after an unreasonably long thirst.