Sir Lowry’s Pass

We drove down Sir Lowry’s Pass in my father's '56; Somerset West seen from the Merc's windows splaying like a Red Sea Star under the night's crude black. The smell of diesel and seat leather like dust in my nose, stately as a ship, we chugged towards the coastal plain; the dark unabridged around us; sleep, like far Cape Town, a diamond galaxy beckoning. Softly my mother and father talked in front. I leaned on my sister’s unconscious form; watching my father shift gears - down, down - cream handle gleaming pale fire under his hand.