I never forget a car. I don't know why. What random event from my childhood burned that ability into my brain? I may forget a name, I will likely forget a face until I've seen it three or four times, but once I know what you drive, I will always know it. And when you buy your next car, I will know that one too, like I know the car you had before it, and the one before that.

Maybe it was my brother's car that started it. I can still feel the cool cement of the garage floor on my bare feet, and smell the old grease and aquamarine paint. A '57 Chevy. It looked fast, even there in the dark garage. It took him time to fix and polish. It took him places where teenagers went, places I couldn't go yet, places where girls dressed in gloves and high-heeled shoes that clicked on smooth floors rode with him in the front seat. It took his hopes and dreams.

Or my sister's first car, that used green Rambler. We laughed at the custom name plate glued to the dash. Who would think of having their name printed on their car? I took my sister away to her own apartment in a different city, a place where she cooked her own meals, and made her own friends, and didn't even call much when the washer broke, or the car got stuck in the snow, or she needed a good recipe for chocolate cake.

I have a car. It makes me smile. I park it far away from other cars to keep it safe. It takes me fast through curves and on-ramps, fast enough to make me feel sorry for the other drivers in the cars that can't keep up. It doesn't take me where I most want to go, like past frustrations, or through fear, or into that place in the soul of my teenage son where he looks out at the world, the place I knew inside and out when he was three.

I never forget a car. They put their promises on us, sometimes, shiny and new, pledging us beauty and speed and sophistication we couldn't possibly have apart from them. What promises do we put on them? Do we promise to grow up as beautiful and smart and successful as the expectations of us?

Do we print our names on our cars and take them with us? Do we take them as fast as we can, not looking back at failures, or stopping for fear, straight into what we really wanted from our lives—our souls?