To Anticipation

The new sofa sectional arrives this afternoon. This is the sofa set I’ve been thinking about my whole life. The kind that other people have and when I walk into their house and see it, I think, “What do you have to do to have a sofa like this?”

By Dan Pancamo [CC BY-SA 2.0
 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons

In the three days since we bought it, I have planned where it will go. Facing the door to welcome guests as they arrive, beckon them to sit or even lie down. Relax. Or facing the picture window? In the spring, watching goldfinches and hummingbirds; in fall, the leaves brighten and fade. Or facing the fireplace? Burning log after log as we read.

I imagine sitting on it. The feel of the leather, cool at first and then warming. The way the cushions actually hold me instead of giving in. On nights when I can’t sleep, I will come down and lay here, and though the worry won’t fade, I can stretch out in all directions.

No doubt I think about my friends coming: pre-dinner drinks, post-dinner conversations when we are past the catching up and well into solving the problems of the world. Six adults fitting easily on the couch. And neighborhood meetings, planning summer music concerts at the park; we are the village and we take it seriously. Have a seat.

One day, my son will come home from college. He’ll walk in the back door with a new friend from out-of-state. It’s Thanksgiving break and they will stay here for the weekend. My son will throw his stuff on the dining room table and they will flop themselves down on the sofa to watch Netflix. They’ll pop open Cokes and snack on chips. They are eager to graduate, talk about traveling, laughing at jokes I don't understand. As if the sofa has always been here. As if this is normal.

To the Dodge Colt Mentioned in the Last Love Letter

The dealer must have sold you for a song to my parents, little Dodge. Who else would buy a standard shift, silver car with black vinyl interior and all black molding including the black plastic steering wheel with no air conditioning for use in Texas? In the summer?

August, 104 degrees is not unheard of. The vinyl softens in the heat. I’m in a hurry, sit down, and immediately burn the backs of my legs. If I had time, I would go back and get the towel I usually keep on the seat, but truth be told, on a day like today, I’d get burned through the fabric. My fingers dance across the steering wheel, touching it as little as possible, until the breeze has cooled everything down.

I’m driving to Barbara’s in North Dallas. The radio is AM only, so I have my jam box in the back seat, powered by 4 D batteries. Prince’s 1999 cued up. It’s 1983 and he’s singing our future. We will be 33 years old in 1999. I’d rather party like I’m 17. I am 17. Shift into third. At the red light facing uphill, I don’t even use the brake: one foot on the clutch, one on the gas, holding it against gravity, perfectly found tension.

I pick up Barbara. Some days she’s lucky and her dad lets her drive his Datsun Z car, but today is not one of those days. We haven’t planned where we are going. Summer Saturday afternoon. 7-eleven cherry slushies melt before we finish them. We drive to the Peter Pan Park off Royal Ave. Sit on the rocks. Dream out loud.

Barbara at Peter Pan Park. She's got the jam box from the car.
I'm sure it's Prince.

Behind us, the windshield reflects the sunlight towards us, like a magnifying glass focusing light on a leaf. It feels like a spotlight, like our future. We are in a rush to drive there. We think it will welcome us. We think we will shift into fourth and cross over to who we always wanted to be. We don’t know about the holes it will burn in us.

The Rocks at Peter Pan Park

To That Moment My Mom Figured Out How to Teach Me to Shift Gears in the Dodge

Empty parking lot. We are in the Colt. It’s May, so the heat isn’t enough to bake us.

I’m in the driver’s seat. Hands at 10 and 2. Beside me, mom uses her hands to show me how I should work the pedals. Palms forward, as if against a wall. She pushes the left hand down and then slowly moves it up, pushing the right hand down. There’s a spot where the gears engage and the gas kicks in and voila! We should be moving.

I lurch us across the parking lot for several minutes. I hear the patience leave her voice. She’s searching for the words that will help me feel this machine. Somehow I have to learn to control this as if it is a part of me. Despite having done this with three older kids, this eludes her.

Four more stalls and she tosses her hand up. “Get out. Let me do it!” We switch seats and she takes the wheel, turns the key. Slowly, slowly she goes through the motions: clutch in, then lifting while pressing on the gas. The car starts to roll, ever so slightly. So slightly it’s hardly noticeable, so slightly even someone watching might not see it yet, but that is the sweet spot. “Now,” she says, “I give it the gas” and like that we are driving. She shifts to second and pulls over again.

I try again, lifting my left foot slower and slower until I feel the car move, then gas. No lurching! No stalling! I drive and shift to second, circling the lot. I stop and start again. Again, I find the spot, get us moving. Again, we circle.

Mom sits back in the seat for the first time in the afternoon. I shift to second, to third. We take a tour de lot. I can feel the car. She rolls her window down, the breeze.