The Skittle Car
The car was skittle green and ailing, a ridiculous little monstrosity missing, among other things, the entire back seat. My mom drove this vehicle for much longer than you would believe a $300 car could function and she did so with a great deal of humor and, it seemed to me, a tremendous level of self respect. Recalling the whole situation with a hearty laugh when she told stories of what else “just broke off, the dumb thing.” She had promptly put some aggressively feminine pillows and blankets down to soften the blow of our poverty. To remind the world that no, we did not have any money, but we still had an eye for beauty.
At that time, I don’t remember her feeling any sense of visible shame around the various ways her dreams kept crumbling around her. She just kept creating new realities. Singing louder. Devoting more time to the town theatre. But that was my mom, impressive in a way that I didn’t fully understand until after she had died. Unique in her refusal to apologize for her creativity in a small rural town that seemed constantly irritated by her presence. She noticed it. She heard the whispers and giggles. But she was too often busy trying to make art out of the mundane so that she could breathe.
I quickly learned to hold all of the worry and shame for both of us. A skill I carried well into adulthood. Turning in my sketchbook for a magnifying glass, I developed an eagle eye…
