My car had lost its spot in the driveway. They sold it a few months after I left. Too much time spent in idle I suppose. But I was so used to seeing the glare of its cherry red paint each time we rounded the corner at the edge of our street. I had memorized that last dip in the road before the beginning of our block. Could draw it with my eyes closed. The way he slowed the car down to avoid the jolt. The sound of the steering wheel’s grip. The smell of leather seats lingering in the air like new. The fight over the radio station through the last few feet of the trek. It was the feeling of knowing we were close to home. That safety. Unpacking ourselves from the car and falling asleep so easily. It wasn’t hard to find rest back then. Back when everything felt so infinite. The seconds felt longer. I could pack an entire daydream into the last few moments before our tires made contact with our pavement. Back home last fall and I could remember every trace of the feeling. It was all I could think about as I saw the silhouette of the overgrown palm trees in our front yard. All of the time I had spent in that car trying to imagine the days and years ahead. Drawing up the scenarios in my mind. Etching them to the intangible and hoping I could will them into existence. That small space my car had taken up and the marks it used to leave behind on the cement. They hadn’t quite faded away yet.
