Dear Blizzard,
How could you have let your ass get crushed just to protect
our 4 little fleshy asses. You just stood there, and left your big white ass
out there, wide, like a catcher’s mitt, saying hit me here, lady. Right here in
the fat back left corner. Here I am, chunky and strong. Pop my innertubes from
the beach, but hit me right here. Don’t go two inches further, where the
littlest Opper is sitting without her ipod because she got in trouble for
resisting picking up Becky’s poop on the beach. Where we were just sitting.
Still. Waiting and not knowing what was coming from behind.
We won’t forget your broken air conditioning vent in the
back. The sticky part of the wall where the cloth covering had come unglued and
disappeared. We won’t forget all the trips we took in you – to Santa Cruz, to
Disneyland, to Costco, to bagels, to the beach, the beach the beach. Nathan packed you
carefully, and cleaned you carefully. You liked the beach, you waited in the
salt air, and just waited there, like a momma hen, because you knew afterwards
would be In n Out, where we’d bring many cups of ice water, the sandy dog,
the salty fries, the wet oceaned hair, the soft chatter of people on the way
home who are soothed by waves, water and sun and wind. You got to hear us at
our best, as our kids grew up inside you. I guess they started in me, and then
were born directly into the van. First on my legs, then on their legs, then on
your wheels. Our van, our uterus.
You gave us views outside of traffic and brown hills, you
carried Poppa to his 100th birthday. You packed in 15 people at
Halloween after trick or treating, all sitting smashed in and peppered with
candy and costumes. You brought us downtown to be filled up with all the
santa’s workshop toys and mugs, excitement for not only our kids but bringing
surprises to a school full of 300 kids.
You never talked, so you were the silent white ghost, and we
feathered into your robes. That last day. It was a beach day. You didn’t make
it all the way to giraffe time, the actual giraffe we could see from the 210 on the way home. You were done with giraffe time.
You were the mother car.
We served you. Your air conditioning broke, your transmission broke
(twice), your windshield had a nice new trailing crack from a rock. Your
sliding doors broke. Your tire blew out on a snowy road in chains. We drove you
through snow, rain, hail and hot Palm Springs. This was your last Palm Springs,
our last great parking space at the Trader Joe’s there, just you and me, the yawning hot mountains,
the quiet, the sweat. You were white,
and silent, and waited while we filled you up, emptied you out, filled you up.
All the teens packed their bikes in you and went to Santa Monica to ride around
at night. All the teens thought it was uncool to drive the big minivan.
Driving the big minivan and you leaving your big white rear
out to catch the lady hurtling at us on the freeway going 50 miles an hour
while we were stopped – your white ass saved us. You crushed in like a strong
metal flower, you curled backwards right to the edge of summer blonde Lilly’s
seat, her head turned to look at me as you held off death.
In eleven years, you held us safe. You saw the kids go from
sledding in snow and taking naps as babies on the way home, to teenagers with
their loud friends laughing and screaming, all safe in your metal cradle arms.
We didn’t forget you Blizzard. You’re here with us. We’re here
now because of you.
Dear Blizzard.
