The Pontiac, Toyota & Honda

Pulling into my driveway, I pause in thought.
Staring at the deep gray leather steering wheel
With the little divots designed for better gripping,
I reach out and trace the silver H centered over the horn.
I realize that I have spent a large chunk of my life,
Many hours totaling into days and more, in a vehicle.

As a kid I most noticed the fabric covered seats –
With the very intricate stitching,
Almost like the string had woven together
In some slow gliding, perfect waltz –
Or the hard material the doors were made of,
Whether my toy car could zoom on the armrest ledge.

The windows in the Pontiac van were always tinted and clean –
“Don’t put fingerprints on my clean windows!” –
Showing mostly the blue sky from such a low angle.
Seatbelts clicked into place before the gears shifted
And there was no fighting with siblings allowed,
(But it happened in quiet, twisted faces until one tattled.)

When I became a teenager, the gas gage and speedometer
Were all I bothered to study because both could, and would,
Get me into trouble from time to time in my Toyota SUV.
Driving around the school parking lot,
All the windows down with the radio and bass turned up,
Meant you were somebody important, somebody with wheels.

Wheels I spent every other Saturday afternoon polishing:
Cleaning black from the cracks in the rims before I shined the tires,
Vacuuming the dirt from friend’s shoes out of the dark carpet,
Dusting the dashboard free of dog hair and lint,
Washing the paint free of mud and waxing it in circles,
So that next week it would look good for a date.

I am silently grateful I have the big Honda SUV as an adult.
I’ve spent a large chunk of my life in family vehicles
But now I have the ability to choose the style that fits me.
I sit up high in fabric bucket seats, looking out the tinted windshield,
Behind sturdy doors painted a bright orange,
Watching the gas gage and speedometer closely.

After the groceries had been unloaded from the SUV in the driveway –
Where they had been stacked behind seats that will one day
Hold my own silent, face-making children,
Who will ride in many different vehicles themselves –
I stop, milk in my left hand, the fridge door handle in my right,
Trying to remember, When is the last time I had the oil changed?