That Dodge Dart was everything wrong with my childhood. Powder blue, almost muscle, vintage 70’s. Not blocking garage or front door, parked on the cement driveway under a sturdy, old Pine tree. Ladder for those branches you couldn’t reach when climbing. An easy way up. Sap stuck to your hands wash after wash. Season after season it sat. Dad didn’t drive it. Mom couldn’t abide it.
Pine needles piled up on it in the fall; fine yellow dust
falling on her with every Spring breeze. Sitting silent in the periphery. Was
it ever discussed? “Hey, what should we do with that car?” I’m guessing dad
meant to get to it ‘one day.’ Take her to a mechanic maybe? One day. Money was
tight. One day.
The black mark on the white wall, jagged scar on the
perfect face. Deep green dichondra lawn, winding white cement driveway bordered
by berry and bush. Mom spent hours in the front yard; mowing, mulching,
mending, pruning. Beauty from chaos. Eye is drawn to the scar, the entropized
car in the corner.
It wasn’t about memories of family trips in the Dart. No
recollection of sis breaking it in with barf on a road trip. I wanted to drive
that car. It wasn’t a Camaro or Chevelle sure. More muscle in it then the white
AMC Hornet I ended up with. It disappeared with a small chunk of me.
They cut down the pine tree. Too tall, old and close to the
roof. A hazard to the house. The Dart vanished. Undiscussed when under the
tree, no discussion upon its sale. Obvious in the driveway but not talked
about. Hazard to the home. My childhood motif.
