journeys, destinations

photo by arantxa villa

untitled

by Ostara Maharaj

The march weather had no personality. No slight chill in the air, no beads of sweat forming in the space between my scalp and neck. If you tried to fly a kite, it would probably lazily droop to the tarmac.

My friends and I had been “exploring” (dicking around) the junkyard a few blocks down from our high school (from which we had basically graduated; the only thing left was final exams). Much like the weather, the days between graduation and college felt stagnant and monotonous. We were waiting- waiting to get away from our parents, waiting to never have to see that one group of friends that just irked us the wrong way (for no apparent reason), waiting to finally be the most independent versions of ourselves. There was no need to rattle our cages- we knew what was coming- but we were growing sleepy behind the metal bars. 

Which brings me to my next point- why we were passing our time doing such a stupid activity. While yes, junkyard amusement got us points on our “edgy teenager” status and gave us lots of content for the “casual” photo dump we would all post next month, in reality, we were just bored and looking for ways to pass the time.  

Between the weather and our surroundings, the feeling in the air was nihilistic; was this junkyard a reminder of the end of all things? 

After growing tired of the “candid” picture-taking, I wandered off into an area of the yard we had yet to explore. To my surprise, among all the shattered glass and metal shards that used to be cars, I had actually found something cool: a maroon volkswagen sloppily wrapped in plastic tarp and what looked like painters tape. Who died before coming back for this? I thought. 

The car seemed unharmed, the only thing tainting it being its wrapping paper. I decided to be nosy- if this thing was in such good condition, maybe I could make some extra cash before leaving for school, or better yet- fix it up and claim it as my own! I peeled back the film.. 

Ah, missing the driver's window. 

But still? To end up in a junkyard? 

I noticed a yellowed piece of paper tucked into the canyon between the seat and the gear stick; could this be the key to a fortune? The paperwork for a bid or car sale? A frowsty, antique smell danced through the air as I unfolded the creases to reveal the notes message: 

My love, 

Where X marks the spot of the treasure, 

show me the map to your heart. 

Show me the twists and turns to take 

From the passenger's seat.

You are my world. 

With Love, 

Rosie  

“You coming?” One of my friends yelled, as I realized they were halfway out of the yard.  

I began my trek back to the sidewalk, puzzled by the story I had just discovered; Who was Rosie? Who was she writing to? Why was her car there? I thought back to my 16th birthday (which lies 3 days before my parents’ anniversary). My Dad (frustration growing)- him in the passenger's seat, me (frustration growing) in the driver’s, and my mom in the back- had been teaching (yelling at) me how to drive. It was the classic familial bickering, the kind that occurred when you asked for help on math homework in middle school: 

“do this son!” 

“I know Dad! I am Dad!” 

“Go easy on him honey”  

Nonetheless, two days later, I passed the test. When I got home that day, elated on the freedom that driving myself would bring, I was greeted by a bouquet of roses, which I considered a kind, but strange gesture from my parents. I approached it, looking for a note (or secretly, a gift card) indicating congratulations, but found nothing. When my parents finally came in from the garage, giggling, my mother gasped at the roses on the kitchen counter. Epiphany struck as I realized that the roses weren’t for me, but an early anniversary present. 

Halfway through my journey to the pavement, I smiled, remembering how happy my mom was that day; how she had beamed and blushed, her cheeks a rosy shade of pink. 

Rosie?

The consciousness hit me like the wave of impact after a car wreck: I knew Rosie! I had known Rosie my whole life. Every year after 16, my dad got my mom that bouquet, and every year she was just as flattered. 

I felt like I had just gotten a look into my parents’ secret identities; a look into their youth; a look into who they were before they were just “my parents”. 

I laughed, partly because the idea of my parents being madly in love as young adults is so charming and the other part, because I couldn’t believe my own ignorance in forgetting the nickname my dad always used for my mom. I had so many questions for my parents (Question one: Can I have that car?), and less than a month to ask them before we were no longer under the same roof. Glancing behind me, the wagon sparkled as the dusk-approaching light poured over its wine-stained metal. It was as though suddenly, the weather had a notable temperament; the sun hugged the trees as the wind caressed the car’s gift wrap in a mischievous waltz, as if to tease me- what secrets would I uncover next?