Arti Rathore

 

I remember driving down lake shore with my dad,

the headlights and city windows replacing the stars in the night sky.

I remember driving past the Exxon Mobile factory, standing tall in all its glory, releasing puffs of smog in the center of a thousand yellow lights.

I used to imagine it was a city, a dystopia where life was exciting.

 

I remember the game we used to play, my dad and I.

It was a way to keep him awake after a day’s work, just in time to pick up my sister.

We used to make up silly little stories about who was in the car and where they were going.

We laughed at the ridiculousness of the stories and the drivers.

 

My dad would tell me all the little tricks on how to catch a cop before a cop catches you.

He would tell me all his stories about people from work, or how he used to professionally roller skate.

He would tell me the names of all the cars I pointed at and the ones that we saw at the car show just the winter before.

I would complain about how we should buy them all and how it wasn’t my fault that I had expensive taste

He would tell me all the shortcuts to get to my destination the fastest.

He would listen to the stories I made up and the gossip I had heard about everyone from my school.

 

I wonder if the other cars noticed.

If they saw us laughing at my dad’s singing or arguing about grades.

I wonder if they made up stories about us and where we were going.

I wonder if we ever saw them again, unknowingly walking beside them or befriending them in a class.

I wonder if they saw us the way we saw them.

 

I remember spotting signs or buildings I thought were cool and rushing to grab a photo.

I would always get frustrated at the blurriness and try again on the way back home.

I remember we would leave just before dinner and get back late enough to stop at taco bell.

I remember how sometimes we would get there early and how one time we parked by the planetarium and walked by lake michigan so that I could take photos with my first camera.

 

I remember when I first learned to drive.

My dad taught me in my high school parking lot, just going in circles and learning how to park after hours.

I remember the first time I drove on the highway, he got the directions wrong and we ended up in front of the same Exxon Mobile I admired from my window.

I remember being so proud of driving to Chicago that I would brag to my mom when we got back.

I remember getting the whole way there and then having to change seats when it was time for parallel parking.

I remember when looking out the passenger seat window turned into looking out the windshield, and rear view mirror.

The freedom I felt, having control of the vehicle was unlike any other.

I remember grabbing the car as soon as my mom got home from work to go out on a drive or meet up with friends.

I would always volunteer to be the driver to any event because I trusted myself more than I trusted my friends.

 

Or rather, I trusted that I was my father’s daughter and that if he was the greatest driver I ever knew, then so was I.

 

Now I look out the bus window.

Now I walk.

Now I don’t get to go on drives with my dad every weekend, running errands with him.

Now I spend every weekend calling home from my college apartment.

 

I remember bragging about how my dad could fix anything without even reading the directions.

I remember coming home from school to see Ikea furniture sprawled out on the living room floor and running to grab the drill and waiting for my chance to use my newly acquired tool.

Now I fix my own things, call him at one in the morning to help me figure out how to fix my broken washer.

 

I remember bragging to everyone that my dad was the President of the American Postal Workers Union

I would beg for him to bring home shirts from work and get yelled at for wearing them to school.

I still wear those shirts around school.

 

I remember wanting to go out of state, out of the country for school.

I remember wanting to travel for work.

And I still do.

I remember thinking I’ll be an adult, that I won’t need my dad.

But I do.