Emily Vance Brown

You know the line: it’s not you, it’s me.

You were perfect, 

I swear. Couldn’t have asked 

for better. Even that one time 

you flooded out of nowhere, 

leaving me to drive to the 

auto repair shop with my pedals 

nearly underwater. Even when your 

cruise control stopped working halfway 

through my two-week drive to New York. 

Little things like these could never 

have stopped me from treasuring you, 

and please believe, they didn’t. 

You were my first way out. You 

were my first taste of freedom, my 

introduction to the idea that there are 

roads yet to be taken. Roads 

we can still turn down. There’s always 

time left to discover a new route, 

and my little red Honda HR-V and me, well, 

we found so many. Little town after 

little town, suburb after 

suburb. Up and down the same 

old freeway, sure, but never the same sights. 

From late-night roommate trips to Whataburger to 

the weekend ferries of student stoners to 

the closest HEB with fresh-squeezed orange juice. 

Coffee cart catering gigs, kayaking trips, and 

my own personal changing room at overcrowded pools. 

Moving in, moving out. Making out in the backseat.

Do you remember when you carried me and 

Emma halfway across the state? We were 

chasing the solar eclipse. We made it 

to Kerrville, where we thought we were headed, 

and then we all said, “What if we just kept going?” 

We watched the darkness overhead from some curb 

outside Medina as Emma and I gaped in awe at the impossibility 

of life and the miracle of us being there to witness it, 

and you stood ready to take us home.

And that summer, “the bad summer,” as I like 

to call it now, although they’re all kind of bad 

when you’re living somewhere with road tar hot 

enough to melt the rubber off your shoes, 

you were the only thread holding my sanity together. 

I know you remember the route: south down 35, 

up Lamar, east down Airport, back north up the feeder. And 

if we got home and I didn’t feel better yet, well, that’s okay, 

baby, let’s run it again. It would have bored anyone else 

to tears how many times I made you do laps with me, 

but you didn’t mind. Want to blast sad girl indie rock on the stereo? 

Sure, that’s fine with you. Want to scream along to 

midwest emo in heavy traffic with the windows rolled down? 

Whatever I need.

You alone understood: I came of age on the Interstate. 

Even in my childhood daydreams, kolaches marked the halfway 

point and semi-abandoned gas stations sold gadgets 

I shouldn’t have understood in vending machines 

that never saw repairs. A court-ordered road trip kid 

doesn’t stand a chance of healing anywhere else.

If I’m ever to let go, I think, it’s got to be now. 

I can’t always be waiting here in Bushwick with 

one hand on my MetroCard and one hand

on your driver’s side door. I can’t keep sitting 

behind the wheel, thinking about how I’ve cried 

in this one spot more than anywhere else. I’ve cried 

with you more than I have with anyone else.

I’d like to not be crying anymore. 

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not your fault. 

It’s just how we were. 

And I know I’m not supposed to admit this, I know 

it goes against my “pedestrians rule the streets” 

kind of attitude and my love of public transportation,

But, oh, I loved you so. 

You, who always carried me where I needed to go.