I once drove a Honda Accord

I once drove a Honda Accord.

Gold with brown interior.

I bought it for 2500 from Dan and Jenn. I test drove it and my brother test drove it as well. I drove carefully to the West Oaks Mall. My brother put it through its paces of the parking lot of said mall if its paces belonged in Indy. Following the test drive, upon my brothers advice and my agreement, I bought it.

But not without the help of my mother.

2500 for a new car. New to me at least. This thing was a piece of crap and an object of pride. I would dart back and forth from work, from LBV to Ocoee via Reams Rd. Back and forth again. Back and forth. On cool fall days, the sunroof would open, and I could feel the breeze above my hair. I could smell the orange groves. Alone, one Sunday, I took a ride back to that same mall and ate chinese food at Panda Express and saw a movie at the theater, but not until after I walked a pace and looked at things and met Bob at whatever store he was working at at the time. Somewhere hippieish, I seem to remember, because I bought sandals there, later on sometime.

I remember my car and the freedom it allowed me within the few square miles it roamed. I remember Checker's and Kristal's. Or if you took a left instead, I remember the Citrus Tower, the relic, the competition to Disney World it was once conceived as.

I remember Florida and a time before Jenn. When my car drove me to Marco, 2 hrs past to how far I thought the Accord could go. Two hours past, because I didn't remember Marco so far away.

I remember pulling into the Surf Club. May no man change the name of that glorious place! I remember walking into the lobby. I remember calling up to the room. Good timing. Dad answered. Said he just got in. Said he'd meet me downstairs. Said Mom was at the beach. We walked down to the surf together, down from the club. Saw Mom in the water up to her knees. I was in sandals and walk up to her, still in the water. She was happy to see me.

The car she helped me buy brought me to her.

She was happy that it did.

I hugged her.

--Vacation, 1997.