"Mom?" my daughter questioned from her seat in the minivan.
"Are you driving with your feet?"
I was sitting at a traffic light and had removed my hands from the steering wheel. Without a thought, I had inched forward. She noticed.
"No," I replied and added, "My dad used to drive with his knees at times."
"How'd he do that?"
"He'd need to get something or whatever and use his knees to keep the car straight." The memory jumped to the front. Dad, Maverick, and I traveling to somewhere, probably dog or field trial related. Maybe we had a coke and fries. Mom wasn't in the car so she wasn't helping dad hold his food or drink. He shifted his left hip to bring his knee next to the wheel. He drove like magic, no hands.
I shook off the deep trance, continuing. "I was about ten when he did it most. It was usually on a straight road and only for a short time. He was good at it."
Her voice, full of longing and yet, of curiosity, too, called, "I wish I could see him do that."
"Me, too, Inwe. Me, too."