My inner voice told me to take the Toyota to see Jason (my trusted car repair man) before we left.  I use and abuse this vehicle.  It is not uncommon for me to rack up over 100 miles a day going from one courthouse to the next.  The windshield has a long crack and I refuse to spend the money to replace it.  I didn’t, in part, because I didn’t want to face the truth.

Easier to pretend things are as they should be— and not as they truly are.

It is no secret I would rather buy a plane ticket or take a trip than fix that car.

This car is messy.  I litter it with coffee cups, papers and napkins.  I live in this car, it is an extension of myself, things need to be worked on and corrected.  There is always a tomorrow.  This car says a lot about me and what I value.

My father is disgusted I keep it like this.  The girls just shrug and look the other way.

I am too tired of this life to care.

My youngest cleans it out so we can make a trip to see my sister and her family in D.C.   We need to make room for luggage and they are tired of my collection of sugar coated and lipsticked cups. We leave after I get out of work.  I drive us into the night determined to pull us the whole way there.  The car grinds to a halt just outside a national forest.  I have three teenaged girls in the back and a Nate.  Nate is over 6 ft.  He is handsome and caring.  No one says anything in the back.  It’s 1 a.m.  We are tired.

They all know what I know: We told you so.  It was just a matter of distance and time.

I do know we are near a specific exit number.  We are surrounded by blackness.  I do not know what this surrounding terrain has to offer.  I have triple A and a working g.p.s.  I call and we are going to sort this out.  The triple A man wants to know the make and model of my vehicle.  I don’t really know.  I am tired.  Is this a 2002?  A 2003?  I think it might be a Corolla.  Let me check the glove box.  I feel suspicion in his voice.  I know he believes I am using my membership on a car that isn’t approved.

No, kiddo, that’s not it.  It’s 1 a.m.  I am tired and I really don’t pay attention to these sorts of things.  The color of my car is maroon or a red—pick a color in between–please get me a tow.

In an hour the tow truck driver pulls to the side of the road.  During this time no police officers or other night-time travelers have paid us a visit.  I am not sure if that is a good or bad fact.

When the tow truck driver comes to my window I am suddenly glad Nate is in the car.  The man’s eyes take in my face they wander to my chest.  My cheeks turn hot.  I look back trying to pretend he did not caress me with those eyes.

I thought about the gun I left at home under my bed.

The tow truck driver delivers us to a repair shop and a hotel.  I do not cry—there was a part in which I wanted to—but I am too tired.  I am not going to waste my energy on tears.  The girls see this as an adventure.  They point out it could have been worse—I could have been just miles into the national forest with no phone service.  This gives us something to learn and remember.

I pay the tow truck driver in cash. He tells me of the surrounding area.  There is nothing for miles.  This is confirmed by the blonde woman working the Super 8 hotel.  I can walk to the repair shop.  The town is a street and everyone knows everyone.

I have an emergency stash of cash.  I always have one.  I am dipping into it.  I call my sister and tell her we are going to be late.  We are 100 miles from her doorstep.  She wants to come and get me.  I tell her “No.”  We wait until morning and we will figure out a plan of action.  It could be possible they might fix the car.

My sleep is disturbed.  I have to be back at 8 a.m. on Monday.  I have a trial and I cannot miss.  I do not know the extent of the cost of repairs or what needs to be done.  I don’t know how we are going to get back home.  I am all alone with these kids.  It would be a lie if I didn’t admit I was slightly scared.

When I awake I find my dream wasn’t a dream.

I call Roland at the repair shop.  I start out with the particulars.  That car parked on his door step is mine.  I need it repaired as soon as possible.  He cuts me off, “Repair man comes in on Monday ma’am” The phone goes “click.”

I quickly determine Roland needs to meet me.  I take a shower and get myself ready.  I put on my travel gear and toe shoes.  I find at the bottom of the stairs that the previous Super 8 night clerk was replaced by a replica blonde.   My walk to see Rowland is a pleasant one.  People wave at me from their front doorsteps.  I know they are curious.  They stop to stare.

I wonder if they wonder:  Who is she?  Where is she going?

Roland has a drawl.  He is old and crinkled.  His right eye is cloudy.  I meet his grandson.  I let him know who I am but omit bits and pieces.  I don’t share my occupation.  I don’t know what the repair quote will be on Monday.  Not about to let Roland know what I do for a living.

I think about Steinbeck’s “Grapes of Wrath.”

My sister comes and gets me.  She tells me she will come and get me anywhere.  Her hug is strong and warm.  I am reminded that it’s not just me taking care of these girls in this world.  My brother-in-law secures a car rental home.

Everything is going to be O.K.

On the ride back they confess that this was a good trip.  That I handled it well.

That I didn’t even cry.

They don’t know that I push all my worry to the bottom of some pit.  I will need a car on Monday.  I tell myself there are car dealers.  I will send cash to Roland to fix what has got to be fixed.  That I will figure out how to get my hands on another car.

I think about people waiving at me from their porches.  I think about the tow truck man’s eyes licking my face and chest.  I think about triple A and the wad of cash dwindling in my pocket.  I think of service and cell phones. I think of Nate.  I think of my sister and that hug.

Adventures can be filled with good and bad.  They all bring about different sorts of opportunities.

I wave back to those people on the porch.

I am not sure exactly when I will make it back to Roland and that street in Hancock, Maryland.
An extension of myself is still sitting there.

Roland assures me, “There is no rush ma’am”

And there isn’t.

We started a breakfast club.  We meet every Sunday at 9:30 a.m.  We meet at different restaurants around town.   It is at this time and place we share our weekly stories.  We uncover our shiny moments and confess the painful ones.  These people are real, safe and flawed.  No one cares because we like each others company.  We make each other laugh.  The food is as rich as the coffee is hot.  We like lemons in our water.  I love that my coffee is mixed with sugar and cream.  We get to know our waitress.  She tells us stories.  We like her.  I am sure our group leaves bigger tips.

I find myself looking forward to this time like I look forward to his e-mails.  White lines in an in-box telling me of some far off adventure.  He gives me vocabulary words to look up.  He gives me things to ponder and think about.  I do not feel him guarded.  He doesn’t tell me things are none of my business or that I do not have a right to ask my questions.  When I ask him what type of man he is— he has an answer.  He is not afraid to look at himself and to share his contents.  He is only shadowy and vague regarding his whereabouts.  He tells me what he packs in his overnight bag.  I see the color of the wall in his room.  Thoughts of him, for some reason, make me smile.  He says he is really not scared of anyone.  I feel him speak simple and refreshing truths.  Words appear to match his actions.  I sense he has time to look at and see his reflection.

********************************
He calls me over the weekend and wants to know if I am safe. This is sweet and kind.  I like the beginning of our conversations but they always end the same way.  I really do want to know about his week. But there is it: The barter and trade exchange.  I cannot give what I do not have. He asks and pushes and is frustrated at my response.

I am back at the water cooler.  An attorney brings up a familiar topic and a familiar name.  He asks me about a this and a that.  I feel a pinch and flutter.  My face changes colors.  His words poke at a purple bruise.  I am surprised at this visceral response.

He deserves my ill will.  They both do.  But I want to be better than this.

I visualize myself opening a hand full of sand.   The grains are letters in the alphabet.  I need to use these letters to form my words to tell the story.  It can be as lovely as Oranjestad beach sand.

********************************
I go home to work in the dirt.  I need this for my soul.  The Earth smells rich.  It is deep and dark.  I cut and weed.  Amazing things are poking through.  I am excited because potential beauty surrounds me.  This task is a big one.  I don’t want to work it alone.  I go into the kitchen and ask if she would like to come and help me outside.  I suggest— I don’t want her company if it is compelled.  She is refreshingly willing.  This child never complains.  We work side by side pulling and clearing.  She wants to scatter wild-flower seed.  I let her.  I don’t supervise or give direction on how it should be done.  She tells me about her week and what she has been doing.  Her chatter moves like our hands.   The sunshine and breeze warms and cools our backs.  I am seeing her differently today.  We are linked in time and place.  I like the sharing of our thoughts.  The sharing of our worlds.  There is no barter and/or trade exchange.

At breakfast I share this story.  We have a new guest and she makes us laugh. We talk of more travels and adventures.  I am more at peace than I have ever been.  I find pieces of myself and they are fitting back together.  Our conversations are different.  They are full of humor.  They have no point.  They never end the same way. These topics are refreshing.  Everyone wants to know when the next dinner is going to be.  Where are we going to find another group adventure.

I think we should charter that bus to Chicago.  I secretly think we should partake in a group bike ride.
*********************

She texts me to tell me she is hopeful and excited about her future.

I feel her happiness and I smile.

I love children.  When I was four or five years old I knew I wanted to be a mother.  When I was a pre-teen and teenager I loved to babysit.  My weekends were consumed with children.  Word spread throughout our community and I was constantly booked as a babysitter.   My teenaged summers were spent babysitting.  I played with the children and I adored them.

I married at twenty-two and gave birth at twenty-three.  I couldn’t wait to start our family.  I thought I knew love until I held Caitlin.  I had no clue what love meant until I met her.  We decided to give Caitlin a sibling and along came Sarah.  (No child should be an only child unless absolutely necessary).  Six years later we decided to have another and soon came Jackie.  I wanted more children but my husband and I were falling apart.  You don’t have children to preserve a marriage.  I don’t think you should have children unless you are in a safe and loving environment.  A man should love his woman.  That woman should love her man.

In his defense I know in my heart my husband loved me and he did the best he could.  I know he loved the girls the same way.  I tried to hold on and love him back the best I could.

Sometimes our best just isn’t good enough.

I loved these babies.  For the most part I spent all my days playing, holding, and caring for them.  I filled their days with books and games.  We would color with crayons and marker.  I made play dough.  We would paint with water colors and poster paint.  We always were listening to music and dancing to it.  We went on excursions.  We housed all sorts of little critters.  Their father took them on camping trips, played sports and was great with all kinds of day excursions and trips.   We created things with glue and glitter.  We blew bubbles and colored sidewalks with chalk.

They were our focus and our joy.  I tell them everyday how much I love them.  I remind them everyday that they are beautiful.  They are strong and resilient.  They are loving and kind.  They are hard-working.  I tell them they possess everything good that exists in their father.  They are brave, hardworking and adventurous.  They are smart and crafty.  They have his gift in that they are popular and well liked.

Parenting them is easy because they make it easy.  I do not feel any self-sacrifice.  I haven’t allowed it.  I let them know this.  I have not given up anything and have pursued my personal goals with them in tow.  I can have a career and be a good mother.  I don’t care what anyone else has to say about that.  I do not resent them.  I do not see them as a burden or an impediment.  I would never want to guilt them.  Guilt is an acid.  If they want to eat cupcakes for breakfast I let them.  Ice-cream for dinner never hurt anyone.

I tell them to define themselves.  I tell them to find their joy.  I tell them not to worry about what I want.  I ask that they find themselves and be true to their spirit.  In spite of this I know they want to please me.  They decorate their own rooms.  They paint on their walls.  They are writing their own stories.

They make fun of me.  They know my faults.  They forgive me.  We know and accept each other.  I am amazed at their talents.  They are smarter than I am.  These individuals will accomplish more than I.  They are more daring and brave.  They know how to navigate these waters because I am constantly reminding them of this world’s evils and dangers.  I am the kind of mother that shows them how to poke out someone’s eyes.  I put pepper spray on their key rings.  I tell them about women’s rights.  I tell them it’s o.k. to leave.  They know the value of an education.

They love each other.  When they are home they fill the house with giggles and laughter.  There has been very little conflict in this house.  They like music, books, and flowers.  They are artistic, smart and kind. They are the best of friends.  They kiss and hug me goodnight.  They tell me they miss me.  They thank me when I make them a dinner or go grocery shopping.

I know for all of my human weakness and flaws I have given this world three amazing and beautiful women.  I am amazed that I was entrusted with their spirits.  I tell them I am proud of them because I truly am.

When the world seems so very dark and black, I picture myself holding three jars.  Each jar contains a soul of shiny bright light.  These jars of light keep me brave.  I have no fear.  I have no regrets.   They illuminate my path.  They bring me immense joy.

This world is a better place because they exist in it.

It’s not that my thoughts are usually scattered.  I am generally a very focused person.  I like to think that I control my thoughts.  Sometimes topics are submerged deep and then they float or suddenly pop to the surface.  They must have a need for air like small grey beluga whales.

I am finding people offer me different and shiny pieces.  I like parts of them.  I like a set of big beautiful green eyes just like I am finding myself getting lost in a set of soft brown ones. 
Hands are basically the same.  Some fingers are longer than others or the palms bigger or smaller. Noses and ears have different shapes.  Some are tall.  Some are short.  They all are smart, witty, and so very charming.

All of these choices.  How does one choose.  Why should I have to?  

I am thinking I don’t want to chose anything or anyone.  I just want to float and see where my inner tube takes me.  I like this river.  It is warm in spots and cooler in others.  I am free to drift.  I like the pull of this current.  I love spending time with those I care about and adore.

Some days I miss safe and familiar.  Some days I crave adventure and variety. 
Amy and I discuss the taking from a this or a that.  Building our own man.  Giving him everything we would want. 

I know myself so well that I know after he was built I would want to knock him down.  I would have to reconstruct him.  I would change.  He wouldn’t be what was needed.   If he wants too much of my attention I find myself running away.  If he withholds his attention I am trying to pull it from him.

He tells me I need too much of his attention.  He cannot give it to me.  He doesn’t have it in him. I deserve more.  I know what he is doing.

I am in that very same spot. 

I think he and I are exactly the same.  We are not the same.

He finds joy in a conquest.  I find joy in safe company.

He says all his other women text, call and come to his home but I will only call him back months at a time.  He feels very comfortable with me.  We should spend the night together.

He says that I am intriguing.  That I am deep and have many layers.  He respects that.  We should go to a movie, put the arm rest up, and after go to a quaint little pub.

He says he understands me.

I will think of them as pieces.  They float up and they will float away.  I am what they want for a moment.  Then I am not what they thought I should be.  They don’t know what they want or they are changing their minds.  They want to get close— just not that close.

I think of tinker toys, potato heads and legos.  The solving of a rubrics cube. 
Once the colors match or the thing is constructed there is no more adventure. 
Men, like children, discarding a boring old toy.

Familiar and safe becomes dull and non interesting.   

So I think about a rediscovery and learning how to ride a motorcycle.