The Old Car
The Jeep flipped over once, landing on its roof. It was a little past dusk on a wet spring evening. I was going too fast on the curvy country road. My front tire rolled over the edge of the asphalt and I must have over compensated. I was afraid to open my eyes. The strong smell of wet earth brought me into the present moment. Was the windshield shattered? I took in a breath and braced myself as I opened my eyes. The windshield was damaged and still intact. The smell came from my open sunroof. Tall blades of grass and young blackberry brambles were poking through, the now, floor of my car. I saw that my purse had landed not too far from me. I tried to grab it but my seatbelt, which thankfully kept me from injury, was still preventing me from moving. I unbuckled my seatbelt and fell to the roof of the car. I tried to open the driver’s side door. But the door wouldn’t budge. I rifled through my purse to find my phone. I called my husband, Jade. All of my senses were recounting what just happened but I couldn’t convert the information into a coherent stream of words. Music playing, wind through hair, thinking about dinner, hit the edge, cut the wheel, smashed the brakes, lost in space, stomach rolls, silence.
“Hi, uh, umm, you need to come and get me.”
Jade asked, “Okay sure, where are you?” Doing our best (maybe my best) to avoid the resonant emotions. His question hung like the smell of wet earth.
I am here with the brambles. No. . .Where am I? Where am I? I typically go by landmarks, not road names. “I am on. . . that. . . road.” I hear a slight annoyance in his voice. “What road?”
“You know, down the road from our house. That, that country road, the curvy one with the horse barn.”
“Okay, I gotta feed the dogs and get Cole into the car, I will be there soon.”
That was 10 years ago. Cole was in Kindergarten. He wrote about it in his Weekend News Journal. I always wondered what his teacher Mrs. Bonica thought when she helped him with his spelling that Monday.
It was declared totaled. We got a reconstructed title. It is the car that I taught Cole how to drive in. We affectionally call it ‘The Old Car’. I still cringe when it makes the horrible grinding noise, a minute after turning it off. We think a shard of glass is stuck somewhere in the heating element, which is why the heat no longer works. The engine and emergency brake light are stuck on - we just ignore them. Jade recently put sealant around the sunroof to stop the leaking.
Today Cole started 11th Grade. He drove The Old Car to school. Of course I am nervous. Due to The Old Car’s condition and history he will need a different level of vigilance. And if this has scarred him, he will have an opportunity in Psychology to write a paper about it - for Mr. Bonica, his kindergarden teacher’s son.