Sometimes we get empty

like a battered car

without gas

My first car was a truck that belonged to my depressed dad

Before he owned it,

it belonged to my Aunt

who is 92.

When I got it

my friend told me

“This truck is so you.”

“Really?” I said. “It belonged to my Aunt who is 92.”

SILENCE.

It’s true. You can tell a lot by the cars people drive,

especially if they’ve owned them for a long time

It took years for me to fall in love with my truck

Maybe arranged marriages can work

I cursed it for years

My dad got a truck from his dad

just like me

And if I complained, my parents said

“This is just the way it has to be.”

“We didn’t have it so great either, so…”

“But what about progress?” I asked.

As time went on

I came to love

the smashed bumper

broken taillights

lock that wouldn’t open

and

rotten smells

inside

“Nice truck,” a man said.

He saw me step out

in professional clothes

“Thanks,” I offered.

His sarcasm

stoked

my rebellion

like gasoline

and I realized…

my imperfections

gave me power

like my truck

and

I became

my drive.