Home away from home,
a house on four wheels.
Beneath its shiny dome,
I feel utterly at peace.
I slide in, that familiar scent
washes over me.
This is where my life is spent,
meandering across the country.
My beloved Toyota Camry,
Shining a proud candy-apple red.
I’ll never forget her;
the Cranberry, my first car.
You know, there’s something about your first car that you never forget. Or, at least, I imagine I won’t. People who know me well are well aware of my deep and everlasting affection for the Cranberry, my precious baby.
There’s something about it, a sensation I get as soon as I slide in. Perhaps it’s the smell of lingering perfume and sunshine that suffuses the air within. It could be the relaxation my muscles experience as soon as I settle into the driver’s seat, its soft cloth cover welcoming me into its warm embrace, still velvety despite the wear of the years. Or maybe, it’s the familiar feel of the steering wheel, the faux-leather cover I had bought for it cool to the touch as I grip it, a sense of power and control immediately taking hold of me. Perhaps its a combination of all these things.
But you know what I’m talking about; that wonderful bond between you and your car, the inexplicable connection between man and machine where, although only one is capable of conscious thought, you can communicate with your car, and it with you.
You always know when something is wrong with it; you can feel it in the way the car turns, the acceleration you feel, or the way the engine sounds. Even if you can’t describe it, you can always tell when your car is feeling sick. And that’s from personal experience.
I love my car. I have created so many memories within its steel embrace, the best of which always flood my senses whenever I sit on those beloved seats. Call me a romantic, but the Cranberry will always be my baby.