I love my car

My car turns eleven this year.

When I first got her, it was like joining a secret stealth club I'd never known existed. The new Car Owner's Club. And not just any kind of new car, but a Rav4, specifically.

Young mothers and hipster Graphic Designers would pass me on the San Francisco streets. We would nod to each other in silent approval of our mutual excellent taste. Other people in Rav4s of their own would honk and wave as they drove by. One particularly memorable day, I was followed for almost a mile by a Rav4 bursting with screaming possibly drunk frat boys. And they were right. My Rav4 did indeed totally fucking rule.

Shiny and black and beautiful, with a moon roof and power everything. Custom leather upholstery in a dark charcoal that cost me a thousand dollars and an extra two weeks of waiting. It was worth it.

With my car, I have gone from California to Mexico, New York, New Orleans, Florida, Arizona countless times...I have watched my pregnant belly go from belly to baby to toddler to almost middle schooler, faster than you can say, "Mom, please."

I have lost my mother, my best friend, and my puppy. I have left one marriage and at least one job. I have lost and gained friends, weight, and wisdom. We have gone through 3 windshields, and 4 sets of tires, but all in all, we have weathered the decade fairly well.

We spun out once, in the middle of a heavy fog on slippery roads. Once again, in the middle of blizzard, in the middle of the night, in the middle of America. We survived.

From the driver's seat, I taught my daughter all the words to countless songs. I read, Where the Wild Things Are, from memory, till she knew it better than I did. We talked about how to count to 5, first in English, then in Spanish, then in Mandarin. We've talked about what it meant to be a good friend, and what it meant to be a good person, and the three best things that happened to each of us on any given day.

Once I watched the moon turn orange and chased a lightning storm across the great expanse of Texas.

Once, in the middle of a moonlit night, I saw a white wolf along the side of the highway. We stared at each other in silence and slow motion, as I drove past.

Once I drove by a car, seconds after it had exploded into flame. I could feel the sudden heat from the explosion, even through the glass and metal of my car. I found myself crying all the way home.

I drove through Louisiana and witnessed the aftermath of a hurricane. I drove through San Francisco to witness the aftermath of a terrible rain storm. I drove through the mountains in Arizona and witnessed the aftermath of a terrible firestorm.

I've had countless cups of coffee in that car, as we've driven through all kinds of weather in these last eleven years of my life. Almost everyone I've loved at all in the last eleven years, has sat with me at some point, in the front seat of my car.

These days, no one screams their approval of my vehicular purchase. The companion cars full of young mothers and roving college boys have all gone their separate ways. But still, as I slide across the custom leather seat and the engine starts to purr, I love my car. As much as I ever did, and maybe even just a little bit more.

For Carole, On The Eve of Her Birthday

She'd wanted a baby sister, for as long as she could remember.

When she was six, they'd bought her a hamster. She'd named him Fuzzy, after the first line in one of her favorite poems.

She loved to pour piles of hamster pellets into his cage and watch as he took the food in his delicate pink paws and packed it ferociously into his cheeks. Sometimes, she wondered if his face would burst. She loved his little twitchy nose and his bright black eyes. She thought he was the most wonderful hamster in the entire world. But a hamster, even a really really fuzzy one, is not a little sister.

She already had a little brother. But he was only a year younger and useless. Too young to play the kinds of pretend she wanted to play, too old to take care of and, anyway... A brother, at any age, as she tried to explain to her parents again and again, is not a baby sister.

You could cuddle a baby sister. You could read to her, all your favorite books, play all your favorite games. You could dress her and feed her and rock her to sleep. Other girls in her class had baby sisters of their own and they were always coming to school with the best stories. Girls with baby sisters were the luckiest girls in the world.

Though, she'd told her mother, she would settle for a kitten. Girls with kittens were almost as lucky as girls with baby sisters.

"Jim," she'd heard her mother say, "either you get her a kitten, or I will..."

When she was seven, her father bought a puppy. The puppy was tiny and warm and squirmy and covered with soft puppy fur. He was the best puppy ever. He loved to snuggle, and he let her dress him up in doll clothes. He was very good at stay. Much better than her hamster or her brother. But though the puppy loved them all, he loved her mother best. He was her mother's dog. And sometimes, when she dressed him up in a baby bonnet and tried to feed him pretend tea, he sighed. Softly. And a puppy, even the best puppy in the entire world, is not a kitten. And even a kitten, she said to just herself, is not a baby sister.

You could sing songs to a baby sister. You could brush her hair and always always always have someone to play with. Someone you could tell all your stories to. Someone you could love best of all. She wished on pennies she threw in fountains. She wished on shooting stars. She saved her birthday wishes. She wished and wished and wished.

When she was eight, her mother told her a secret. It was the best greatest secret in the whole world.

"It might not be a baby sister," her mother told her, "it might be a baby brother. You'll have to love them, no matter what."

Getting a baby brother would be like getting someone else's puppy, when what you wanted was a kitten of your very own. Her mother didn't understand. But that was ok.

"Don't worry," she had tried to comfort her mother, "It'll be a baby sister. You'll see."

And she was right.

She waited and waited and waited and WAITED and finally, her parents brought home a baby sister, wrapped in soft pink blankets. Her baby sister had tiny little fingers, even more beautiful than hamster paws. Even better than puppy fur. Her baby sister was tiny and delicate and beautiful and the most perfect baby sister ever.

"I have a baby sister! I have a baby sister!" she shouted to anyone and everyone. It was one of the happiest days of her life.