When I was two my parents bought a van without a name.
We were fast friends, the three of us- my car seat, van, and I.
When physics reared its ugly head the van let no one die
Despite the rude attempts to passenger and driver maim.
The van liked California’s clime so it began to curse
That fateful year we moved to Utah in the driving snow.
It said to us “This awful climate is my greatest foe.”
But it was wrong. The moniker-less van would soon see worse.
I got my learner’s permit on the day I turned fifteen.
I punched the gas, I stomped the brakes, I jumped my share of curbs;
I played that I was Ottoman and bicyclists were Serbs,
But even lacking in a name the van let me play mean.
It went away to school with me without giving a fuss.
So maybe its repairs cost more than all my textbooks’ sum.
I didn’t care, I had a car! So what if it looked dumb?
That unnamed turquoise beast could fit more students than a bus.
As an adult I didn’t learn, so really I’m to blame.
Two hundred thousand miles later, a U-turn was too hard.
For thirty silver coins I sold you to a salvage yard,
And so, adieu, my fearsome friend, my van without a name.
Liz Gabbitas 