One day,
I drive,
for the very first time.
I step out of my house,
jitters.
I linger through my driveway,
jitters, jitters.
I walk to the driver side door,
so
so
so many jitters.
My hands feel as though they hold no weight,
as though they would float away
if they weren't attached to the rest of me.
When I climb into the car,
when I feel the presence of my father on my right,
my sister in the back,
the tremble in my fingers calms.
I place my hands at 9 and 3,
I picture SMILE in my mind.
Oh no, what is S?
What in the world is S?
"Seatbelt." Papa tells me with a dead-serious expression on his face.
My sister snickers.
And the block in my mind breaks.
M, mirrors.
I, ignition.
L, lights.
E, engine.
My face warms with the soft blow of heat,
keeping the shivers away
and out of this little capsule I soon control.
My dad speaks the directions that keep my mind at ease,
my sister stays silent,
other than the occasional giggle I get when I press the brakes,
sending the car in a motion that reminds me of waves on a beach,
or a ball bouncing back and forth,
back and forth.
I inch the car along the snow-plowed road and thank the universe
that there is no one else around.
I curve us through the neighborhood,
slower than even a snail could go.
I hear the sound of the car's heat,
I hear my feet shift from one pedal to the next,
I hear my dad tell me I have to go faster.
But I'm going so fast, I think.
How could I possibly go faster?
I press the gas a bit more,
and little by little,
we finally make it to the speed limit.
20 mph.
I'm cruising,
going so fast my glasses would fly off my face
if not for the roof of my mom's silver Kia.
I take the car to the end of the street,
where I have to do a circle,
a small little loop.
And I do,
and sure,
I brush the side of the road a little,
but I just keep circling.
Circles,
circles,
circles.
And eventually,
they get better.
They get easier.
And so I drive home.
I'm going 20 still,
but it just feels like 20 now,
not like the speed of light.
I scan the entire view in front of me as I drive,
because for some reason,
everything seems bigger,
more important,
from behind the wheel.
I park the car in my driveway of pebbles,
listening to the familiar crunch of rocks on tires,
feeling the bounce of the car as we pass through the divot
that fills with water any time it rains.
And I get out of the car,
safe as can be,
seeing the world in a whole new way.
It's kind of crazy,
really,
how everything truly is different in the driver's seat.
I drive,
for the very first time.
I step out of my house,
jitters.
I linger through my driveway,
jitters, jitters.
I walk to the driver side door,
so
so
so many jitters.
My hands feel as though they hold no weight,
as though they would float away
if they weren't attached to the rest of me.
When I climb into the car,
when I feel the presence of my father on my right,
my sister in the back,
the tremble in my fingers calms.
I place my hands at 9 and 3,
I picture SMILE in my mind.
Oh no, what is S?
What in the world is S?
"Seatbelt." Papa tells me with a dead-serious expression on his face.
My sister snickers.
And the block in my mind breaks.
M, mirrors.
I, ignition.
L, lights.
E, engine.
My face warms with the soft blow of heat,
keeping the shivers away
and out of this little capsule I soon control.
My dad speaks the directions that keep my mind at ease,
my sister stays silent,
other than the occasional giggle I get when I press the brakes,
sending the car in a motion that reminds me of waves on a beach,
or a ball bouncing back and forth,
back and forth.
I inch the car along the snow-plowed road and thank the universe
that there is no one else around.
I curve us through the neighborhood,
slower than even a snail could go.
I hear the sound of the car's heat,
I hear my feet shift from one pedal to the next,
I hear my dad tell me I have to go faster.
But I'm going so fast, I think.
How could I possibly go faster?
I press the gas a bit more,
and little by little,
we finally make it to the speed limit.
20 mph.
I'm cruising,
going so fast my glasses would fly off my face
if not for the roof of my mom's silver Kia.
I take the car to the end of the street,
where I have to do a circle,
a small little loop.
And I do,
and sure,
I brush the side of the road a little,
but I just keep circling.
Circles,
circles,
circles.
And eventually,
they get better.
They get easier.
And so I drive home.
I'm going 20 still,
but it just feels like 20 now,
not like the speed of light.
I scan the entire view in front of me as I drive,
because for some reason,
everything seems bigger,
more important,
from behind the wheel.
I park the car in my driveway of pebbles,
listening to the familiar crunch of rocks on tires,
feeling the bounce of the car as we pass through the divot
that fills with water any time it rains.
And I get out of the car,
safe as can be,
seeing the world in a whole new way.
It's kind of crazy,
really,
how everything truly is different in the driver's seat.
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