My Fleetwood Cadillac is, for all intensive purposes, a tank with leather interior.

Externally, it is indestructible with two scars: 1) a cracked parking light from months ago when my mother dented a man's side door in a parking lot, and 2) a scratched side mirror from last week when I demolished someone else's by taking a corner too quickly.


Internally, it is the perfect road-trip car, if the engine itself were stable enough to manage long distances. Instead, we frequent the drive-in and pretend it is a sofa.


I am worried that I am the opposite of my car: a soft-leather exterior that cannot afford itself protection, and a tank of an interior who has hardened prematurely in order to compensate.


I would rather be the mirror of my car: an exterior of a woman who can take care of herself, independent, strong, able to be the anchor in the midst of a torrent,
but internally soft, caring and full of trust, protected enough by my substantial exoskeleton.