Empty Nest

The 1982 powder-blue Volkswagen Rabbit was cute and compact; I bent to the back seat to buckle my little girls into car seats twenty thousand times; it drove to grocery stores, dancing lessons and preschools; it lived on snow. Reincarnated as a sixteen-year-old’s alter-ego, it spent its second life sprinting from High School Theater to Taco Bell, graciously bestowing rides upon thankful subjects, making memories, night cruising.

The 1993 Dodge Caravan originated navy blue, peeled to sad, pocked gun metal gray. It was square and ugly, but it held three cellos, one bass, two violins, six musicians and could made the 20 minute drive to Youth Orchestra in 13.7 minutes. It carried the entire Odyssey of the Mind team, vast quantities of food administered to starving actors, various and sundry adolescents always coming or going and an incredible amount of garbage. Sometimes, driving down the road in the middle of the night, waves of laughter coming from the back seats, I would look at the faces in the rear view mirror and be struck with terror at the wealth of intelligence and talent cradled in my single vehicle. I’d want to pull over, too frightened to drive. The faces in the mirror have faded and disappeared, one by one, dissolved into the bright future that awaited them and the ugly gun metal Caravan is gone.

My new Honda Accord is silver with black velvet interior. The lines are long and elegant, the engine makes hardly any noise. Inside is the first CD player I have ever owned; I can listen to my own music now instead of the kids radio stations. I put in a thin metal disk and turn the dial all the way up. The sound shakes the inside of the car; I can feel it in my backbone and in my knee against the door. Crosby, Stills and Nash echo inside my skull, in the pit of my stomach. “Teach Your Children Well . . .” I glance in the mirror. My hair needs to be colored; there is a stripe of grey right down the middle. I am alone in the car.


©Edwina Peterson Cross