I had a little black car then.
It sat baking in the early summer heat as I said my final farewells.
Goodbye to my family.
Goodbye to the little town I never really fit in with.
Goodbye to the memories both sweet and saddening.
I put both hands on the steering wheel of that little black car, knuckles white. It was my saving grace. It was my chariot of freedom. I put my foot on the gas pedal. And as I drove away,
I smiled.
The first step is always the hardest.
A baby’s feet on the carpet. A teenager’s Vans on the gas peddle. A father’s stride next to his youngest daughter in her wedding gown. A hesitant shuffle outside the expectant conference room.
The first step is always the hardest.
A realization of the necessity to change. A new opportunity. An outlook of hope.
As I drove that little black car, I focused intently on what I was driving away from. Sadness, anxiety, reputation, numbness, regret. I didn’t notice them following me along. I didn’t recognize them inside the car. They were hidden under the seat, burrowed within my baggage.
I was so intent on driving away that I didn’t see what I was driving towards. But I see it now.
I drove the car towards hope and opportunity. I drove it towards independence and freedom. I drove it towards a journey of healing.
I drove that little black car towards the southern Appalachian Mountains.