The Long Way Home

Stab wounds. How apropo. That is what the smattering of Rorshach shadows that dotted the nylon surface of the back seat reminded me of, with their jagged edges and staggered placement. The source of the spots was far less insidious, but no less destructive.. I raised my eyes to the fingerprint-smeared windows, looking past streaks left from various food items that had baked to the glass after having seen their day in the sun (and then, subsequently, met their fall from grace to the floor mat below) once you'd grown weary of what was offered.

Tiana. Cinderella. Bluey. Hell, there is even an inappropriate candy cane sticker that said "It aint gonna lick itself". Rolling my eyes, I had to admit it was funny. You wouldn't have known what it meant- just some adult humor; a little flicker of joy for the parents, too. Had this been my car, you wouldn't have been allowed to put stickers all over the windows. Mommy and Mama are different in that way. Seeing this evidence of your innocuous but still-present existence overwhelmed me with joy. And pain. Knowing your little fingers, slender and clever, selected and placed these stickers ever so carefully in their rightful spots with joy in your heart...
I reached up and touched a finger to the faded embellishments, characters that were familiar to me but seem now as though they belonged to a different person, in a different lifetime.

I traced the edge of Cinderella's dress, as though it were your same tiny fingers I was touching. A lump choked me when immediately I could feel your warm, always slightly dirty hand in mine. As my mind reached for you, I ran my fingers over the back of your nails, clucking- they always needed cleaning from your outdoor romps. I remember when I was the only one who could cut your nails and clean them, especially when you were a baby. I'd had years to practice before you and mommy was nervous. But we figured it out.

I marvel in my mind at how your hands started off so chubby and grasping, just to become lithe and light like little birds in a bush. The lump is now a lead weight in my throat and my eyes, still raw and swollen from the bittersweet journey home last night with this vehicle, threaten to spill their contents down my cheeks. You didn't even get to know me as a mom...but I promise....I was one. I was yours, and you are still mine. The leak becomes a deluge broken free, while I try to savor the closest I've been allowed near you in almost a year.

Just two weeks prior or maybe even more recently, you'd sat in this car, for the last time. I knew which side had to have been yours- crumbled food remnants, a broken crayon, and a small rubber hair tie were sentient, tangible reminders that at one time you'd been real to me. At one time, you were a manifestation, and not just a memory. If I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply enough, I could smell your own unique blend of Eau de Toddler- a combination of dirt, sweat, and candy, heavy on the candy (at least before the cavities). I settled myself into your aura, shifting into the indentation made from your car seat being strapped there, ignoring the crayon working its way into the crease of my backside. Crumbs? What crumbs? I leaned back against the window and prayed for the sun to penetrate enough that it would melt the ice around my heart that has been there since the loss of you. Letting my eyes flutter shut, that moment was for imagining I could still feel your weight gathered against my chest, breath steady, safe in my arms. I'm sure you weigh a bit more now, Beastie. I wouldn't know. But I want to.

I hadn't wanted this car back. There are so many ugly things attached to it. It was truly a matter of principle and necessity, not malicious intent. I hated how it probably made you feel, as sensitive as you are. Did you feel this loss, after already losing so much in your short life?? Did you ask questions? Did they talk about me in front of you? Curse my name? Do you miss me? Do you want to ask questions that you have no way of articulating? How can you possibly understand all of this? Do you hate me? Can you possibly comprehend the way that I love you though we share no blood? Hurting you is the last thing I wanted in all of this. This car may be just a car, but it was always a part of your life, just like me and your sisters. But as mommy had always been so quick to remind me....everything has an expiration date. Maybe you're used to that now, the feeling of loss. And I'm so sorry for it.

I touch my fingers to your streaky window one more time. I was intending on scraping the stickers off, in preparation for sale. These stickers are definitely past their expiration date, if there was one.

But you know what, Beastie? Your interior decorating is so aesthetically pleasing that I think I'll leave them here, just a bit longer

So that you can love me, too.