The minivan was dying,

that was clear to us.
It’s once golden gloss surrounding the mechanical
contraption like a golden chariot,
was now rusted and scraped leaving memories
of every ride as scars.

Year after year would go by as we grew,
but it stayed. In time, it was bound to be
forgotten.

Stains of condiments and soft drinks
painted the canvas car floor.
An occasional granola wrapper or saltine
would show, submerged along with a million others.

Some of the chairs had handles,
some did not.
The ripped leather led the beige foam
to peak from the tainted backs of them.
The mesmerizing squeak of the leather would play
as I would press my hand against
it, and stroked it across from one side to the next.

The scent of pine had left a long time ago, along
with the joyful new car we had bought in 2001, and left us
with the scent of sweaty socks
and sneakers left in the rain.

The windshield was stained and spattered.
A crack lied on the upper left corner with a mystery
of how it arrived. The wipers were broken and stayed
as decoration

As it rained outside, we left our car out.
Some days it would rain gently,  other days, aggressive.
From inside, you could hear the pelting of the raindrops
from above, bombarding the metal shell of the melancholy vehicle.

Although it's gone now, I still remember all the memories left behind.
All starting from the first ride
to the last.