“Dad, I’m going to take the car over to Matt’s.” 

I tried to make it a casual statement, but the electricity running through my body made it come out like a question.  That morning, a driving test examiner had officially declared I was fit to drive.  By myself.

He hesitated, then said, “Ok.”  I was out the door.  “Bye.”

I stepped out into the cold evening and ran to the car.  Snowflakes sparkled yellow through the streetlights, giving the night a touch of magic.  The electricity leapt from my fingers to the door handle to the steering wheel to the seat cushion.  The keys felt cool and solid in my hand as I slipped them into the ignition.  The engine came to life but it had a different sound tonight, alive and responsive. 

The snow crunched as I eased the car backward out of the driveway.  I turned toward Matt’s.  Then, it became real:  I was driving.  I was an adult. 

The plastic dash, the lighted dials, the radio buttons, the leather seats, the metal ball at the end of the stick, they all shared the same smell, a glassy, metallic, slick, soft smell of potency and freedom.  If I was not an adolescent boy I would have called it a perfume, but it had the same affect – I was high. 

I was not about to squander this sense of maturity.  I drove with a care and self-assurance that showed the world that I was competent, an old hand.  The test examiner had said so.  “Nice going, you passed on the first try.”  I even nailed the parallel parking.  Anyone I passed, if they looked, would guess from my calm, detached expression that I was much older. 

The hours and hours of training had settled into my muscle memory.  The car responded to the coordinated actions of my hands, wheel, gas, feet, clutch, stick, brake.  I could feel the road through the car, everything responded to my will.

I came to Matt’s place, slowed and turned the wheel.  Traffic had cleared the snow from the road but on the driveway there was still about an inch.  That was just enough.  Friction abandoned me for about eight feet.  The tires, pointing in one direction but sliding in another, did not obey my hours and hours of training or my muscle memory.  I slid across Matt’s yard and into a four inch maple tree.  

The hit was dead center, as if I had placed the car with intent.  The test examiner would have been impressed.  Matt and his dad heard the sound and came out to look.  The grill was pushed into the radiator.  There would be no more driving this car tonight. 

The electricity had left my body, replaced with a limpness that did not want to move.  Dreading the talk, but knowing that this was a now part of the adulthood I had been initiated into, I went inside to call Dad.

“Hi Dad.  I’m ok.  But I hit a tree.”

With a trace of resignation, but none of the anger I half-expected, he said, “Yeah.  When the phone rang, I thought it might be you.”

Steve Sphar is a transplanted mid-westerner living in Sacramento, California. He is a leadership coach and business consultant whose creative expressions include writing poetry and creative non-fiction and playing Irish fiddle. His writing brings the interior of life to the surface where it can breathe. He has previously published work in “The Same” and “The Penwood Review.”

A full-cream girl in a skim-milk world, she stands upon the scales with much trepidation, the events of the previous weeks weighing her mind down ever further. In a monotonously static loop, the cravings had caused another cave-in, tripping her up and down towards the weak-willed conclusion of failure. Unwanted questions failed her latest doctor’s visit. Above everything else was the ongoing saga of the ‘Close Enough’. Presentable would have to do. The thought swirled in her mind as she wearily gazed down to witness her scales announcing another truthful lie.

         Another time, she wore a dress out of hard-won daring, anxiety having been pushed back like a nervous broodmare separated from her foal. She hoped it would be worth seeing the reactions of her friends (they never occurred), to see them stunned at such an uncharacteristic statement being made (it washed over their heads). Perhaps even a compliment, even as simple as mentioning the colour choice would settle the beatles fluttering in her ego-

         Her hair. Her shoes. Her glasses. The same praises for the Never Changed.

         Alright then. Back to jeans tomorrow. Time to return to shopping strictly in the Special Place. She is tried shopping in the Normal Place. She had to walk straight back out of the Normal Place. She is not considered normal in the society-shaped Normal Place. She does not fit and neither do the clothes. These idioms are sturdily drummed into her head. Back to the status quo. Another day in the Just-Enough. 

         It is the plus-sized way. The maximum effort to blend in only achieves standing out like a sore thumb. She is the elephant in the room, the fat lady and yet she cannot sing to bring an end to the countless awkward encounters. It bears down on her, threatening to pressure her internal world into crashing down. The elephant trumpets out its anguish and yet not a single soul can hear it. 

         As she stands upon the scales, those dreadful scales telling those truthful lies, she realises- one cannot expect others to listen unless one learns to hear themselves first. 

         She is angry at the truth the scales dared to divulge. The truth cannot be dismissed, but certainly can be changed. So, she takes the anger, rips it in half with metaphorical hands and devours it with her ego. She is set alight with furious dissatisfaction. It is Not Enough. Away she throws the anxiety. It is Not Enough. Away she tosses the overlooked dress, half of her kitchen’s content and the silhouette of her elephant. It is Not Enough.

        Sweat and aches and breathlessness, motion to motion, the anger propels her forward. Cravings are beaten back with a vengeance, all trepidation channelled into months, weeks, hours, and days of fuel just to get close to Satisfied. Inner train chugging along, she falls off-track with an easy shove, but she always manages to scramble back on. She never stops getting back on.

        (It is Almost Enough.)

       Green tea in a skim-milk world, good lord, she has consumed enough of it, the scales ever so slowly begin to reveal more joyful truths. Cravings continue to plague, but they are for sustenance of life, not for the stomach. By the time her friends noticed, the compliments came in tidal waves, yet there was no anxiety to be found, no reason to care. Close Enough, then Never Enough, became Just Perfect. The journey is far from over, but she loves it nonetheless as sweat and exhaustion lead to improvement, leading into contentment.

Marni Hill is an aspiring Australian poet with a BA in Literature. She is driven through life by her love of history, music, film, and dogs, not necessarily in that order. For her, poetry is structured imagination that can entice and intrigue all walks of life and that is exactly what she hopes to achieve.