I'm pretty positive my uncle Don was a pedophile.

He made creepy, leering jokes at me from the time I was nine onward.

Dad always refused to allow me to be alone with him, despite Don's apparent love and favoritism for me. My brothers were terribly jealous, because, while there was definitely a dark, sick undertone to his love, he bought incredible gifts. Just for me.

His wife (a mail-order bride from some secret location in Asia) also "loved me dearly." I never knew her name. Everyone just referred to her as Mrs. Wong. Their attempts to groom me and gain my trust were impressive to say the least. Dad had a long list of faults, but protecting me from his brother wasn't one of them. It was one of the only right things he ever did.

How on earth does this relate to cars?

I'm getting there.

Uncle Don loved old things. He loved the challenge of them. He bought old houses and cars and bicycles and really any old thing he could get his hands on and restored them. He bought and sold more cars than I can count. He had no problem letting go.

One car, however, he could not part with. No one knew the make or model. No one else had ever owned a car like it. It was Don's own creation.

It was the first car he ever built...

and it was a masterpiece.

Supposedly, Uncle Don had worked in a shop when he was a young man, and he had slowly stolen parts until he had the makings of an engine. Then, he'd taken to sneaking onto properties late at night, stealing larger pieces of metal off of old cars to weld together into something new. He finally saved up enough to buy some classic car (origin unknown-- he wouldn't tell anyone) to use as the base for the project, and then had spent the next half decade piecing it together.

He was left with something resembling an old fashioned bat-mobile. The car was the color of midnight, with smooth, rounded lines, velvet seats, and a shining chrome hood ornament. The car was legendary. He had never lost a show in which it had been entered. The car was famous in every town it frequented.

They say that Don never had any children. They're wrong.

He did. It was that beautiful black monstrosity of a vehicle.

He lovingly draped it in blankets each night after spending hours of the day tinkering on it, perfecting it, waxing its paint.

That car was his child: his creation.

No one was allowed inside--Not even Mrs. Wong.

Until.

We met Uncle Don at some car show in a small town. It was mid-summer and the sun had just set. The atmosphere was perfect for cruising. I was twelve. I was brave.

And Uncle Don invited me on a ride in his car.

Even dad couldn't say no to that. He'd been dying to sit in the thing for years.

Don treated me like the queen of the whole wide world. He read the warning look my father gave, nodded his head at the murder threatening in his eyes, and held open the door of his most precious possession for me to slip inside.

(He did-- behave, that is. Don never did lay an inappropriate finger on me. I know you were worried, but this isn't that kind of story.)

The velvet of the seats was even softer than it looked. It felt like floating on a cloud- it felt like luxury. The blending of leather and metal and wood on the inside of that car was artistry itself.

Don slipped into the driver seat and smirked, "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes." I'd scarcely whispered, torn as I was between awe and fear.

His smile widened and he turned the key. The engine rumbled and screamed and purred. I could feel it in my soul.

He accelerated and the engine roared, and we sped off down the road, and I forgot time had any meaning at all as the wind whipped my long hair and my skin melted into velvet and my heart pulsed with every nudge of the gas pedal.

When it was over, I could scarcely bring myself to slide out of the soft seat. Uncle Don waited with the door held for a long minute, a knowing glint in his eye. As I stepped onto the pavement, he whispered in my ear, "Now you'll never be able to say no to a guy with a fast car again..."

And he was right.

Hope is a funny thing, one second it's in your grasp and the next it slips through your fingers. All the light had fled from my life, I had no reason to exist. Nothing to look forward to, only things to look back at. I knew my best days were far behind me. It was school morning, the sun was hidden behind the clouds, not willing to witness my plan. It wasn't elaborate, but I had been thinking of it for a long time. I had been wondering when I'd finally snap and the day before I had. My last reason had left, the only way I could keep living was convincing myself things would get better, but I'm a bad liar.

"Of course, I can't even die peacefully." I mumbled as the raindrops hit the windows of the bus. I was standing up, the bus was full. School was a few stops away but I'd be getting off at the next one. Where I could look at the water rushing beneath me when I stand on the ledge. The rain grew stronger, the sky was crying for me, but I couldn't feel anything. I had reached my resolve and I wouldn't let myself waver. All of a sudden I was pushed forward, a man in work clothes had bumped into me.

"I'm sorry, are you okay?" He asked me, I bit back a bitter retort at the sincerity in his voice.

"Yes, I'm fine." I lied. He shuffled to his seat and in a few minutes the bus halted. I shuffled to the front and the doors opened. A gust of cold air made me shiver and I braced myself as I started moving out into the cold.

"Wait! Hold on!" The man ran up to me with a bright yellow umbrella in his hand, he offered in to me. I narrowed my eyes wondering if it was money he wanted. "As a apology." He explained, but I didn't buy it. He took my hand and placed the umbrella in it, securing my fingers around the handle. "You can return it to me tomorrow, I'll be on the bus." He went back to his seat and I stumbled out, opening the umbrella and shielding myself from the rain. I don't know what it was that touched me so much, maybe it was the small act of kindness, or maybe it was because I was scared, perhaps it was even the bright yellow color that made my eyes sore - whatever it was evoked cries I had never heard myself let out. I didn't feel like I was the one crying, I felt as if I was watching it happen. I had to return the umbrella, so I decided to struggle through another day. I never saw him again, he was never on the bus, but everyday I sat at the bus stop with the yellow umbrella in had. Something as silly as that had saved my life.

- Megan Menezes

All I wanted was to see my son, whatever the cost. Danny called me crazy for my decision to brave the storm instead of finding accommodations for the night. Actually, his exact words were “you’re acting like a fucking nut,” which I had no argument against.

We had finished a 15 hour shift on the railroad, shunting freight between Annandale and Mill Haven, and we were due back at the shop in under 10 hours, so he was right. I was acting out of my head.

It was a 100 kilometre drive north on Route 11, which was about an hour on a sunny midsummer day. In this weather, I was looking at least two, probably more. I knew my son would be fast asleep by the time I got home. But that didn’t matter. I needed to see him. His face was the precious reminder of why I was doing what I was doing. It was my therapy.

I exited the shop and walked down its rickety steps, grabbed the snow brush from the trunk and went to work on my car. After ten minutes of brushing, I hopped in and made several drive and reverse attempts before finally flooring it out of the unplowed parking lot of 772 Pleasant Avenue and onto King George. The main drag leading to Route 11 was in complete disarray. No matter how fast the wipers flew back and forth, it was a whiteout.

Yes, I could just have pulled into the nearest motel and counted my blessings. The Super 8’s neon sign was beckoning me from the side of the road. Besides, what good was a father if he was dead in a ditch, after all? But that was rational thought, and I was simply operating on adrenaline and emotion.

So, before I knew it, the Super 8 was fading in my rearview, and I was hanging a left onto the rattlesnake exit 324, leading me to the deathtrap known as Route 11.

From the ten-minute drive on King George leading to the highway, my hands were already gripping the steering wheel tight enough to burn the skin of my palms. I was twisting and turning the rubber back and forth like my brother used to do to my forearm when I was a kid, when he was performing what he called an Indian Burn. “Here goes nothing,” I said to myself. “Here goes fucking nothing.”

I got the Honda up to 60 km/h, and I felt like I was Jeff Gordon or Dale Earnhardt at the Daytona 500. The car was going to swerve out of control, if I kept it at that speed.

The orange light on my dash told me that the wheels were without traction. This alert would keep me company for the rest of the drive. Of course, there was no traction. How could there be? I was driving my shitty Civic into the mouth of oblivion.

After fifteen minutes of white knuckle driving, my nerves already shot to hell, my shaking fingers turned the radio to 104.9 FM. Randy Bachman was discussing bubblegum music of the 60s and 70s, on his radio show Vinyl Tap. Normally, his deep, grizzled voice was a source of calm after a long, debilitating shift, but now his serene demeanor wasn’t reassuring at all. Mainly, because hearing it just reminded me of the predicament I was in, and how long it was going to take me to get out of it. If I got out of it at all.

The snow was attacking my windshield like an angry Norse God, as the howling wind rocked the car with reckless abandon. I slowed down to 50, which didn’t get rid of the orange light, but still provided an atom sized feeling of relief.

“Just turn around, you crazy bastard. Take the next exit.Go stay at a hotel. Go see your kid tomorrow night, or the night after. Go get some sleep." The voice of rationality screamed in my head. I knew I should listen to it, but I also knew that I wouldn’t.

Within the next hour, I saw four cars in the ditch along the highway, and two transport trucks stuck on the hill between the Oldville Road and Lone Pine. The trucks unable to make the steep grade, so a slanted sleep would be the driver’s only reprieve until the storm receded.

I kept going without even a second’s thought to whether or not the people in these vehicles were in trouble. Hell, I was in trouble. I could join the party at any moment.

Sweat trickled into the burned skin of my palms, stinging it like a bitch. I stopped the car twice to wipe the sweat from my face, dry my hands on my dirty work pants, and assess the situation to determine if I was even on the road.Bachman was playing Sugar, Sugar by The Archies during the second stop, and I was sure that it was going to be the last song I ever heard.

But fate was on my side, and after two and a half hours of driving at a snail’s pace, I had my first religious experience. The sign for my city, barely visible behind a thick sheet of snow appeared. I’d never been so happy to see the damn thing. A sign that I saw multiple times a day. Glory Hallelujah. It was a miracle.

As I took exit 327, a tear escaped my eye and fell onto my lap. I turned the radio off, after thanking Randy for providing me noise that wasn’t the thunderous drumming of my heart trying to escape my chest, and drove down Main Street. Eventually, I turned on to Union, before flooring it into the driveway of my small home.

The house was dark. Of course, my wife and son were asleep. I knew that before embarking on my fool’s pilgrimage.

I sat in the car for a few minutes, unable to take my hands off the wheel. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, trying to slow down my racing heart. Breathing was hard, so I rested my head on the horn for a few minutes, before finally exiting the car.

I trudged through the snow to the side door, opened it, took my boots off and walked to my bedroom where my wife slept deeply, and my little boy, all swaddled in his bassinet, dreamed beside her.

My hands rubbed his soft cheeks, and I knew that despite what rationality says, I’d brave the storm on that godforsaken highway every night, just for a moment like this.

I was seven when my father abandoned our family. The original explanation for his absence was that he was on a business trip. I was too young to know that there weren't any conventions for local disco owners. I think at the time that this took place my mother knew he wasn't coming back. I believe she also had discovered that he took every dime we had with him. I did not know these things then but a heaviness had descended upon my mother, my little sister and myself. A wet blanket we couldn't get out from under.

One day my mother announced we were going on a road trip from our hometown of Kenosha, Wisconsin to St. Paul, Minnesota to visit my aunt away at college. Not only that, but one of our favorite friends of the family, Steve, would be joining us. It seemed decadent to me. Like we were somehow breaking the rules by also leaving the state.

I was told that from the moment I was old enough to comprehend that there were places outside of Kenosha to see, live and be, that I wanted to go there. Anywhere and everywhere. I will never forget the release of that drive. I saw my mother laugh and smile again, cracking up at Steve's jokes as they split a six pack along the way- drinking and driving and open containers of alcohol being barely illegal in the 70's. Also totally legal? No seatbelts or car seats for the kids! I remember my sister and I standing up in the backseat of that 2 door Honda hatchback, holding onto the headrests in front of us, swaying back and forth with the wind blowing in our faces, singing along to Mac Davis' , "It's Hard to be Humble". It was freedom, and for a moment, we were out from under the blanket.

The music is playing in the car, everyone is quiet. Not because of anything bad happening, but because everyone is tired and drained. It’s the car ride home after vacation. The several months leading up to planning, saving money, and getting excited for the vacation has ended. Everything has already happened and played out how it was supposed to. We got to the hotel on time, we went everywhere we said we were going to go, and we ate all the food we said we were going to eat. All that's left from this is the pictures we took and the dent made in our bank accounts. I look to my right and see my sister asleep, and I look to the front seat where I see my mom in the passenger seat with her earbuds in while listening to her podcast, and I look to my dad and he is focused on driving. I then look at the g.p.s. where it says how much time we have left until we arrive home. 2 hours left. 2 hours left until I arrive back to reality. 2 hours left until I can no longer say I’m on vacation. 2 hours left until I have to return back to school, work, and all the responsibilities I have. For some reason I want these two hours to last forever. I want them to last forever because being on vacation is one of the best, freeing, and exciting feelings to ever have. When I arrive home I will put my suitcase on my bedroom floor and I will take two weeks until I actually clean it out. I will take all of my souvenirs and place it on my desk for display, and I will transfer all of the pictures I took on my phone and make them into polaroid pictures I can put on my wall. I can’t help but to think of what the next vacation will be or when the next time I'll be able to look forward to something will be. But until then, I will just relax and enjoy the last two hours of my vacation in the car ride home.

She sits on a chair

as young as she is

waiting and watching.

Through the window,

though outside she

watches...

she pictures what life

would resemble if only

her parents would stop

fighting.

With a pained smile

a deep breath, and

swollen eyes from all the

crying she's done lately

now

closed tightly,

as she imagines...

her mom, dad and herself

cruising along the waves

of the ocean on a yacht

her dad bought in recent

years.

Merry laughter non-stop

happiness, and the luminous

sun coupled with the

beautiful blue skies

- such a nice mixture.

A tear now streams

down her face,

a semblance of a smile

now crosses it.

Opening her eyes, she looks up

to the heavens and prays,

"Dear God, please help my family. We're not okay. Fix us.

I want us to be happy again

like we were when I was

younger still. I've had enough

of my parents fighting. I want

us to love each other again."

I had just moved to a new province and met the girl who would one day become my wife. Three days after arriving she took me over to her family’s farm on one of the local islands. I was playing it cool and tried endlessly to show her just how easy going I was. She walked me around the property, introduced me to the cows, showed me the pond where she used to swim, and retold stories of farm adventures at every turn. Back up at the house we decided to go up the mountain to an amazing viewpoint… as a new arrival I was stoked!

But then I learned about island life.

Without a care she pulled out a joint and gave it a light. Again, trying to be awesome I proclaimed that I was well experienced in the mary-jane and asked for my turn. Ya ya…that will make her like me!

Lesson 1: Nope…hadn’t smoked weed in a number of years so all tolerances were gone.

Lesson 2: BC weed is much stronger than the Ontario stuff I was used to.

We then hopped in her dad’s old Jeep and went on our merry way up the mountain road. I say road, but what it’s better described as is a partially washed away goat trail full of ruts, dips, and blind corners of death. But being a local who grew up taking this road she gunned it and explained that the only way to get up smoothly was to fly over the ruts. She raced up the hill attacking every corner like it was between her and a sushi dinner (her favorite).

But I, the new arrival, having just met this person, with my own control issues about driving, and stoned well beyond comfort level was absolutely losing it inside! But I still played it cool because, like I said, I’m awesome like that.

We got up to the top and went on a stroll…past the barriers and onto a cliff edge with peril one step away! Was this girl trying to kill me?! My brain was screaming “not ok! not ok! not ok!”, but kept my cool and proved just how awesome I am.

We bombed back down the mountain and got our way back to the farm for a nice meal. On the outside…such a cool and easy-going dude. On the inside…that was the most nerve-racking drive of my life! But she’s awesome and we got married 18 months later (I drove).

Two little pills, smaller than my pinky nail. Mint green, calm and strong. It took thirty minutes to swallow one. Then another. Then to move my feet, not quite trusting them to hold my weight. I'd thrown the world into chaos, my own kingdom left without a competent queen for the next 4 hours. The car door felt as it always does, smooth navy flecked with just enough shine to blind me in the summer, and always a few specks of dirt sticking out like barnacles to roughen my fingers. Sitting down was a bit heavier, though. So was living. As the first puff of warm air from the vent hit my face, I startled at the feeling. I half expected to be numb already.

We drove onto the freeway. I glanced at the other side to see what the traffic would be like coming back, whether today was a day where it'd flow freely or if trucks making their way to the city clogged up the lanes. It was free, and in nice weather too. All things pointed towards greatness as the window stayed crisp and clear. Maybe everything would be fine, it certainly seemed like everything else in nature was beaming. The sky was clear- and so was my vision. We were getting off the freeway. Less than 10 minutes from the dentist's office and I still felt everything. The edge of a napkin under my thigh, the prickle of the seatbelt as it dug into my bra strap. Why wasn't I numb? Why wasn't I seeing double already, talking about dolphins or grapes or whatever people do when they're loopy and getting wisdom teeth removed? The bottle of those little green meds was clenched in my hand and I fidgeted with the child-proof cap. Only four pills in the whole bottle, and two should have been enough to make me forget this whole day. What if it wasn't enough? What if they just started and I wasn't numb or anything? Could I even speak up for myself at that point? What if it is enough, only the car ride wasn't long enough and they give me more, only to realize too late that I'm overdosing? The view outside blurred, but because of tears, not any synthetic fuzz. My heart was never so loud.

Two little green pills. They were supposed to make me calm, but it was all I could do not to dissolve into a full blown panic attack. My mom was frustratingly calm, perhaps for my sake, and it felt like she was ignoring me as my castle crashed down, trying to close the portcullis against some invader that had already sent a cannonball through the east wall. Whatever happened would happen, and the king was as good as dead. The enemy was already there, at the gate, going in, sitting down to tea with his wife and children.

We parked. I stepped out of the car. Went inside. They crushed another pill, placed it under my tongue. And my kingdom fell into the hands of another. I don't remember the car ride home. They kept good on that promise. But no one seems to care about the fear you feel before it happens because it's over, right? And that's good? That's all you need? It all goes numb afterwards, a big ball of yarn sitting unravelled. Until you get there, though, it's pain and worry, even as the world around you seems fine.

I sat in the front seat of my black Ford Expedition and stared out into the parking lot. A curious bug flying too quickly slams into the windshield and I thought “appropriate” as I watched a ripped wing from its newly lifeless body fly off into the air. The stain it left looked like a sad teapot…”also appropriate” I said out loud to myself.

My teenage passenger had yet to arrive. I’ve waited for this child in so many ways. I had her at 40. She was 2 weeks overdue and came in at 9.4lbs and nearly killed me…literally, my last image before her birth was the ass of an OBGYN straddling my body and pushing her out while another OBGYN pulled. It was traumatic and she’s been dramatic ever since. Today would be no exception.

“Ahhh, here she comes...finally” She walks as slowly as possible towards the car, her long brown hair softly frames her angelic face. Gabrielle, I named her after an arc angel. She’s a warrior with an internal sadness I can’t undo. She’s everything I’m not. I need lots of help raising her but today it will be just the two of us. She slides into the car, peers to the back seat, sneers and turns around without looking at me. I hit play…Taylor Swift. “Really mom…I can’t...you are so cringy.”, she says unamused. “What would you like to listen to?”, I ask. She answers me by putting in her airpods and curling into a ball with her head resting against the window against her favorite stuffed animal, “Funny Bunny”, given to her by my mother.

This will be a long day.

We drive north from Oklahoma City, its March but surprisingly warm. The drive is dotted with barren trees that look like black lace against the sunrise. Wind turbines stand taller than the squatty Oklahoma trees and scattered birds are the only wild life I see. I heard that environmentalist were against the wind turbines because of bird fatalities. I spend my time watching these turbines and birds interact and I did not encounter one death. Oklahoma has smart birds I think to myself. Maybe these birds that hit the turbines are suicidal or visually impaired? Maybe the birds really aren’t real just like QANON says. Tiny drones recharging on phone lines…maybe the turbines house the bird done factories and maybe when a drone messes up a mission they slam it into the blade of the turbine…they should check for blood when the birds impact….yes, that would solve that issue once and for all…I think about birds and turbines far too long but I’m happy to have them to occupy my mind. I need a distraction right now.

The last 800 times I took this drive was with my mother. The drives weren’t always from Oklahoma but the destination was always the same….home. The only home we’ve ever really had, Shubert, Nebraska. My parents met there in 6thgrade. My mother’s mother was a teacher and drove the kids from Shubert (population 150…on a good day) to the neighboring metropolis, Falls City (population 5,000) to school. My father went to the public school and my mother and her brother went to the catholic school. My grandmother often told the story of how she made my dad sit in the front seat so he wouldn’t be next to my mom. She often caught him looking at her in the rear view mirror. This began years of my grandmother’s failed attempts at interceding to get my mother as far away from my father as possible. She sent my mom to an all-girls college after high school…it didn’t work. They were destined to be together.

My 'Swifty" hating teen and I stopped as we always stopped, at the Cracker Barrel, mid-way to our destination. We went in but it wasn't the same without my mom. She loved to buy anything in Cracker Barrel and she took hours looking at everything. I learned not to protest and would wait patiently on an outdoor rocker while she and my daughter shopped. Gabrielle is my daughter's name. "Named after an angel", my mom would say. They had a special bond, one I was excluded from. It was fine with me. They giggled and told stories and I took photos of them and wrote down memories. I had always been an active observer in their relationship. I'm sure my mom was like that with me when I was growing up? I relished watching them bond and this drive and this Cracker Barrel were part of so many of our good times together. I didn't know how Gabrielle would take Cracker Barrel without my mom here. I watched her gently brush through the brightly colored tunics and turn over some sparkly snow globes. She gave a slight smile when she saw a small blue bird paperweight. This makes sense. My mom loved bluebirds and pennies. She thought her dad sent them to her from heaven. We were constantly looking for Papa's pennies. Neither of us felt like buying anything, we walked back to the car without rocking. I slid into the driver's side and spied a penny on my console. I got out of the car and grabbed Gabrielle's hand before she could open her door. I reached into my purse and pulled out 1 more penny. I didn't say a word as I walked her back towards the Cracker Barrel. "Mom, what are we doing?, this is sad for me now...please, lets go." She pulled back and I stopped. I faced her and placed a penny in her hand with a knowing look. She followed me. We each placed a penny on the armrest of the rocker my mom used to rock in and the one Gaby used to rock in. We walked back to the car and continued our drive in silence.

We pulled into town just before two. The white house was standing proudly, waiting for our arrival. My uncle was outside to greet us. He followed us out to St. Ann's. The gate was open and 2 hawks were circling overhead. The fields of corn were barren and a stillness hushed over the prairie. Four reddish stones stood strong. Two on each side of an empty space. A stone statue of the cross and Mary and Joseph dwarfed everything worldly in this space. They were ready for us. The tent was pitched and a green tarp covered the space where my mother would rest for eternity.

Gabrielle and I stood with the last strands of strength we had left. I popped the trunk of my Ford Expedition and the men that were there from the mortuary guided my mother out of the car in her golden casket adorned with four white angels. "We did it, Gabrielle, I said with tears in my eyes. We brought her home." I planned to have some time alone out there before guest arrived. Time for just Gaby and me. We sat on the ground next to my mom and Abba's "I believe in Angels lilted from the car stereo on repeat. As the first guests arrived, we composed ourselves. The service was beautiful simply because that's what you are supposed to say. I don't remember much of it, but I do remember, my daughter's hand grabbing mine to stay back when all others had gone. "We'll see you at the church.", I call out to my uncle and do a slight head motion towards Gabrielle. He nods and takes his leave. "I love you mommy.", she says. "I love you too angel", I say. She opens my hand and places a penny in it. "Let's leave these here for Nonni.", she says. The look she gave me in that moment was transcending. I became the child and she was comforting me. We placed the pennies into the space where she would lay and walked hand in hand back to the car forever changed.

Strapping in for my first flight in a Cessna single engine plane was exciting and nerve wracking all at the same time. It was my first flight ever in an aircraft. Sucking my breathe in as we slowly rolled to the small grass runway.

Once given the ok, we rolled faster and faster down that runway, closing my eyes afraid to look. As the plane lifted off leaving the ground beneath, I felt my heart in my throat with butterflies fluttering around inside my stomach. The pilot laughed as he told me I could open my eyes. Once open I released the breathe I had been holding, looking out and seeing the pure beauty of the blue sky. A feeling of excitement mixed with awe came over me.

The houses, buildings, trees all looked like a small play town. Cars moving along the thin strips of roads reminded me of ants in an ant farm. It was a completely different world in full motion. Everyday noises became serene. Lakes were bluer than I’d ever seen them from so far above. I could imagine jumping into one and never hitting the bottom.

White, fluffy clouds appeared, more breathe taking than I could have dreamed of. Looking like cotton candy floating. Without warning, we slipped inside the largest of the clouds. Being surrounded by pure white fluffiness was breathtaking and exhilarating. Lasting only a few minutes, we punched a hole in the other side. The blue sky and sunshine were blinding at first, I wanted to do it again. What a fascinating experience.

The sky began to grow darker, before the stars were out, I looked below to see all the cities lights flickering on. It was like looking at the world upside down. A glorious, beautiful site as we headed home.