The White Van

He drove it often, and on the outside it looked white. But I could see it; the red blood dripping from the engine, dripping from the heart of our main transportation. It was broken. Beyond a mechanics knowledge. Beyond anyone’s knowledge.

Every breakdown was fatal. On every road there seemed to be no room for other cars to get passed because our White Van took up all the space. Someone tried to get close, tried to help, but a disguised explosion occurred each time a paramedic showed up. Disguised by anything but the truth.

We looked fine. We told them we felt fine.

But our bleeding metastasized, like a tumor raiding the possibility of freedom. Why did they believe us? Why didn't they ask more questions about our well-being?

You did not think to mention the outcome of your mental illness. The impact it had on your youth.

Our sanity was a ticking bomb, a stick of TNT, on the verge of explosion.

Gasoline surrounded us from the outside, like we were a sinking boat in the middle of the ocean, so far away from humanity that we forgot the language of the blessed.

The fearful curiosity grew as I looked toward the road. What turn could possibly be next?

Every weekend I would see this White Van. Unable to comprehend its pressure, but recognizing where the surface is and how far away I was from it. There was trouble behind every door that was opened on that van.

You did not call.

You did not text.

And despite what you always told me not to forget: you did not write.

I did not read your mind when you thought it was time to forget about me, leave me in the dust, on the dirty highway. I was alone. A hitchhiker that knew there was no possibility of being safe inside another vehicle. There was no way that I could step into another vehicle and feel right, feel loved or validated; not that I ever did in our White Van, but I was always told by my safety net to take risks. But sometimes fear is much stronger than words.

If I terminated the car, would anyone care enough to take it to the dump?

If I built up myself from the dust, would they see past the scars from the ‘accidents’?

You didn’t think of that, did you? You didn’t partake in the thought that perhaps you may just be a human who caused more damage than you took, and don’t get me wrong, I knew you were broken, I knew you had demons that you only let out on the nights you had a drink or two. But I knew that you were the ‘cause' and I was the ‘effect' that a little makeup could cover up. You were the mystery bruises that kept showing up that my friends would ask about. We could have had a yellow car. We could have had freedom and love and an unshakable hope that surrounded us like a shield.

But you chose The White Van.

The seats kept falling out — less by the year to choose from.

And the investigation went numb to everyone involved, police included.

They just… left. They hid the broken car parts on the side of the road, hoping nobody would run over them or remember they exist.

As the seasons got colder, so did my feet whenever I got close enough to feel the oxygen you breathed out.

And as I left, so did the White Van.

Forgiveness was a different road that I needed to partake in. Like taking a bite out of the most tasty meal in the world after years of starving. But the words were so difficult to utter that I kept them in my head, hoping you could hear me anyway — not that you ever did.

But I forgive you.

Only because you let go

Of the White Van.

So I will too.