Before she arrived, there were cars — so many cars! — switched out often, like diapers, the owner so seldom seen, they might have moved themselves.
Amir had lived for more than a year on his own. We watched his carport from our kitchen window, wondering who he was, why he seldom spoke to anyone. We never found out what he did with all those cars, but we shamefully provided our own explanation. A single guy from Afghanistan, solitary habits, and vehicles coming and going. We were friendly but kept our distance.
Then one day, a female emerged from the carport. A Muslim man with a kept woman? Not likely. It was his new wife, of course, brought over from the home country. She arrived when we weren’t looking, the car between cars, so beautiful she stopped traffic.
Adeela brought with her the wish to drive a car. She wished so hard you could imagine little wheels sprouting beneath her, spinning as she folded the laundry, rolling her over to us with trays of food she cooked herself. Food we felt guilty accepting, kindness undeserved. She would point to each item as we learned restaurant Farsi: Korme Kofta. Chalow. Mashawa.
When the day came to take the test, she dressed for the occasion. Black hair shining on an uncovered head. Face made up boldly. Jewelry flashing like high beams. She returned so quickly I wondered if the agent at the DMV had passed her automatically.
Now she runs the wheels off that thing. Drives it around the neighborhood like a Hot Wheels pedal car. Runs it so fast I imagine her speeding to Kabul overnight, flaunting her new freedoms then gunning it home, leaving a shimmering exhaust of spices and silk in her wake.
Michele Rappoport is living the small life in Arizona and Colorado. She travels in an RV, creates tiny art, writes poetry and other short pieces, and has a certification in small-animal massage. She wishes she were taller, but she is 5’3” and shrinking.