Gals & Hot Wheels
When I was a girl, my dad always tried to teach me about cars. He pointed to what this thing was and he explained how it worked. And I remember none of what he tried to teach me. I remember looking at his tan, scarred hands, that grime under the nails that would never come out. I can close my eyes and smell the mix of diesel fuel and cigarette smoke. That was the smell of my dad after a long honest day’s work in the shop. The literal blue collar with his name stitched across his chest.