real love

I don't know if you can ever get at the root of love. It's something that is so beyond ourselves that living in such love from day to day will push the bounds of our moral fiber. Some people I know have recently been hurt by their friends, roommates, or family. Throughout life, you learn that you will be hurt. They've learned it hurts the worst when someone you love so much hurts you. And, then, you learn how to be divine: forgiveness.



Sixteen. Such a small number (in retrospect, of course), but I felt old enough to be in control of my own life. I felt like such an age also came with certain responsibilities. Thank goodness the Texas legislature agreed with me. After passing weeks of annoyingly boring driving tests and dealing with the only woman I knew who genuinely loved her mullet, I had my license. I could not park well, I scared the crap out my mom, but I had my license. Things were looking up.
The only problem was the part B of the whole driving equation. I didn't have a car or the means to buy a car. Mom said she could hopefully get me one before college, but we'd have to figure something out until then. Little did I know "figuring something out" would mean I'd get to drive the Sin Wagon.
The Sin Wagon was my papa's '85 Ford LTD station wagon. Aptly named, the Sin Wagon was christened with its title after Eric realized the bright red upholstered backseat could fold down, and I let the name stick because I love Olivia Newton John. It had red detailing. It had a push-button radio. It had all of its floor mats. It gave a nice rattle once it hit 60mph. It was Papa's pride and joy.
You see, Papa kept the LTD in the garage. He rarely drove it: the car only had 70,000 miles when I obtained it in '03. He washed it carefully, making sure not to scratch the paint job. He made sure that the seats were always properly cleaned and had no remnants of crumbs (heaven forbid we'd drop part of a vanilla cone in that car!). The engine, while old, still started. I was in love.
The morning of the pick up, he greeted me in front of the garage. "Gal, you think you are ready?"
"Oh, yes sir!" I extended my eager and ready hand. With a disgruntled look on his face, he plopped the large silver key into my fingers. I hopped in and started the engine, rolled down the window, and began my practiced Princess wave for departure.
Papa stuck his head through the window enough to let the air conditioner carry his creased and powdered skin smell to my face. "See those three pennies?" he began. I looked down to my right at the small cup in front of the arm rest.
"Uh huh," I continued expectantly.
"Now you can say someone gave you a car and paid you to take it off their hands." At the end of the sentence, he couldn't contain the onset of chuckling at his own prepared joke.
I shook my head and placed the car in reverse. As I moved away in the maiden voyage of the Sin Wagon, I glanced up to see Papa's expression in the rear-view mirror. I could read it plainly. There goes my baby. Whether he meant the car or me I'll never really be certain, but I do know that either way, he meant it in love.