"Loving Cars" by Moa Maeda

Photo by @thenigmatic on Unsplash

I love that car. 

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I used to love its sleek body, youthful speed, and ruby-red smile gleaming under the fierce sun; the way it would zoom off with a roar and disappear into clouds of dust and gravel and rubber flying into eyes, the smell of burning diesel tingling noses, only to appear moments later on the other side of the road; how you’d be left grinning ear-to-ear and waving your pudgy fist at its figure receding into the end of the road, reaching through the wired fence as though you could snatch it and make it yours.

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I loved its tough lumbering body towering over mine, the windows glittering with hopes of seeing different worlds, the scratches and rust patches and dents symbolizing its century-old history; the way it would come by regularly (or sometimes not), heaving its heavy body up the steep hill, chugging and smelling of burnt molasses cookies. When it passed, it would toot thunderingly and go creaking back down the hill back to its resting place somewhere beyond, its shadow lingering long enough for a pleasant goodbye; how you’d yell at its retreating shape through the white picket fence knowing, believing, clinging to the hope that she would come around again tomorrow.

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I love its smooth surface, large blinking headlights, and strong muscled tires that would take you away on secret adventures after dark, past locked doors and closed gates and crumbling “No trespassing” signs; the way it would growl and lightly tremble underneath you during the ride, its heartbeat coming deep within the dashboard vibrating through the body; how the wind would whip your carefully slicked hair as you escape, speeding through the night while you laugh for no particular reason and she joins you.

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I still love its wide space, openness, the familiarity of its purr over the excited chatter and bubbly giggles and snarl over hawk-like screeches and heaving sobs; how she would tirelessly work, running from school to work to home to back to school, barely complaining. As time goes by it would gradually show new creases in its ripped leather seat, stains on the walls, spots on the rearview mirror and cracks in the headlight; how she would smile at you at the start of the day despite all the doors slammed shut in her worn-down face refusing her a chance to revive once more. She would smile again as the sun went down on us.

Love her. Loved.

Moa Maeda is fifteen years old and from Yokohama City, Japan. They enjoy writing poems, painting, and collecting famous people's last words. They started writing short stories at a young age and began poetry at eleven years old following an obsession with the works of Edgar Allan Poe, Oscar Wilde, and Robert Frost.