Rearview

I don’t care about cars

How much they cost and how fast they drive

But

At 6, I fall asleep in my dad’s red Alpha Romeo

(Or sometimes pretend)

Dry heat on a cold night

Fogging up the windows

On our way home from somewhere

My dad carries me into the house

And tucks me into bed

At 16, my uncle calls us

All dressed up and nowhere to go

But it doesn’t matter

With the right mixtape recorded off our favorite radio station

Or a CD with pirated songs and titles smeared across the shiny disc

Or a playlist your crush put together for you after the fourth date

And you drive with just the beautiful light and the sky and the music

Trying to figure out if they chose the songs for some hidden message

And then sharing a pint of the expensive ice cream with cheap plastic spoons

After the inevitable breakup

At 18, I buy freedom

An ancient baby-blue Ford named Scrappy

The passenger side door doesn’t open

So my boyfriend has to climb

On hands and knees

Through the driver’s side

While I’m looking at his ass

I never get it fixed

One time, a metal railing screeches along Scrappy’s side

Because I stare too hard and too long at a sunset

Coming home late from school on a winter day

I think this sunset is the last thing I’ll see

I never tell anyone

I don’t die but Scrappy does

In rush hour traffic, in the middle of an intersection

A few weeks before the boyfriend goes to Argentina

At 21, some Dean or Dick or Danny at the tire place asks

Which one’s yours?

And I answer the blue one

And don’t understand the smirk

(Until I get the astronomical bill)

At 26, my favorite aunt drives the green beast across the country

To give to me

Because I can’t afford to buy a car big enough

To hold my most precious people

I have a husband, but no job or education

At 30, I have an education, a job, but no husband

I still have the green beast

I get $5 pizzas and balance the boxes on the dash

Passing pieces heaving with crispy pepperoni and dripping with grease

To the back

Blindly

Kids fighting over the first and last one

I’m grateful for every old ass Subaru with four-wheel drive

Getting me through a white-out blizzard

In desolate towns that never quite feel like home

And the old truck

Roaring and sputtering

Striped brown corduroy cushioned seats that smell like everyone’s grandpa

And sawdust and gas

Patiently holding the hanging baskets of flowers

About to die in the last storm of this bait-and-switch spring

And the only dog I ever liked going insane on the way to her favorite park

And the six kids piled in the back

Heading toward the first ice cream cone on the last day of school

I’m grateful for every middle console I’ve held hands across

My person looking at the endless road in the early morning light

Pressing the back of my hand against his lips

Humming a song

I’m grateful for hard conversations in dark cars and darker parking lots

The side-by-side seats allowing tears to roll off teenage cheeks

Don’t look at me, mom

And the electric blue Chevy

My oldest daughter bought with her own money

Saved up from hours and hours and years and years

Working at the pizza place

Electric blue takes us on a girls' trip

To a cabin by a lake

I look at the former boss of the pizza slice distribution

Red curls straightened

Going 7 miles over the speed limit

Three sisters crammed in the backseat

Singing loudly

Eating road trip snacks out of gas station bags

I don’t care about cars

But I care about pulling your favorite hoodie around your face

Leaning your hot head against the cool glass of the window,

Gaze calm, trees blurring, thoughts drifting

Slipping gently into sleepy twilight

Your own makeshift cocoon.

Tomorrow is the last day to try out the free co-writing group - you can find all the info here! I hope you join us :)