Third Seat
Time ambushes us in ordinary moments.
I cleaned the Mazda minivan
today at Zips Car Wash,
even though it was August hot and ad just rained.
I had time.
It was 4 pm which I used to call the witching hour
because our kids tended to come apart at the seams about then.
The vacuuming and scrubbing part
morphed into a hour as I folded and unfolded rows
digging out wrappers and straws,
scouring sticky doors,
and murky cup holders.
I sucked up at a dozen
sundry fruit pits.
It was satisfying work to make it all clean.
Until I opened a the forgotten compartment
in the third row--
A time capsule containing
a Wendy's cup,
an unopened bag of Goldfish,
and a tiny Lego man.
Which child forgot their treasures
and grew up in the meanwhile?
How many miles and years rolled by?
Trips to the pool, co-ops, and store...
Then lisences, college, and Covid.
The middle of life blurs by
much like the landscapes we pass
always racing to the next next.
For a moment, I sat in the back of the van
crying and wondering.
Do I throw out the Lego man?
Silly perhaps, but it felt cruel to me
after all that patient waiting.
How many more miles will pass again
until that compartment
gets used---if ever?
And where did the little boy and girls go
with their insatiable appetites
for fruit and play?
