Easter

On Easter Sunday I found myself driving my ninety-year old aunt and my mother and sister eastward to the suburbs for our family Easter celebration. We have a family tradition for Easter that goes back ever since I can remember.

We were on the freeway and traveling without a hitch. I was driving at a pretty good clip. I just wanted to get there. I was in a minor state of torture. We were humming along when a high pitch squealing sound emanated from left front wheel well.

“What’s that? I asked

“What’s what?”

“That sound.”

“I don’t hear anything,” my aunt said.

I heard it and I was the captain.

“It’s just a plastic bag stuck to the bumper,” my mother said.

But it wasn’t a plastic bag. We had a situation on our hands.

“It’s that truck! It's that truck over there," my sister said.

For a moment I thought it was the truck, but it wasn’t the truck.

Everybody offered their expert opinion as to what the sound was. Then, my aunt dropped out of the conversation completely. She decided it a good time to write Easter cards to her great great grand daughter’s. She dipped her head down and wrote amidst the chaos.

I pulled the car over to inspect it. There was fluid spilling out from under the carriage. I pulled the car forward so I could decipher what kind of fluid it was. I stuck my finger in it. It was water.

“It’s water,” I said.

My sister sounded the call. “It’s water!”

“It’s probably the air conditioner, “I said.

I turned the air conditioner off. The sound went away. I stuck to the side streets just to play it safe. We drove a couple of miles, all was good, and then the sound came back.