Total loss

A meditation on my oldest daughter's third car.

I’m so thankful that my past self had the idea to photograph some of my kids’ drawings. I’m sure I still have this precious memento, but it’s buried in a big box of art in our crawl space and I probably won’t drag that box out for years yet. This picture is courtesy of my oldest son, who is about to graduate from high school (sniff!).

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You’re only twenty-two, but I don’t even remember
what your first car looked like—the one that someone
ran into because you were in the wrong lane, and you spun
like a merry-go-round in downtown Seattle, a place we took you
on the bus when you were little and red-cheeked
with long yellow hair, clutching a doll. That car was totaled 
but you were alive, joking with the doctor and trying
to brush it off so you wouldn’t cry. The next car
was electric blue, and you covered it in bumper stickers.
Your friends etched little drawings onto the dashboard
and we tried not to mind. You helped pay for it. 
You were an adult, with a “Funeral” sign suctioned
to the top of the car. But you pulled too far forward one day
and scraped the bottom clean off. A kind man told you 
not to drive it home, that oil was leaking everywhere.
Bless him. If he hadn’t said that, you would have tried to drive
because your shame is bigger than your self-preservation.
Tonight you come home with your dad in a new car—
or rather, a car that was new when you were thirteen,
holding your baby sister outside of the school: so proud 
of how little she was. You seemed so old then, hip cocked 
to keep her chubby thighs anchored; and you seem
so young now, looking at me from the driver’s seat.