Dear Honda Accord,
I remember when you arrived in our life, so sleek and glamorous. Dad picked out your color even though you were going to be mom’s car, and she never loved the white, or did she not? I can’t remember. She has a white car now.
I remember when we would wait on the schoolyard at middle school and see my mom parking you across the street. My friends said my mom drove you like she was “gliding”.
I remember when you became our only car.
I remember learning to drive, grinding your gears and my mom losing her mind.
I remember when I got into that accident with you. And the other one.
I remember when I left for college. Somehow the visual memory of leaving home is stamped with the image of you in the driveway. How does a car become such a big part of a childhood?
-e.