I was five years old when my father brought home our first brand new car. It was a well-anticipated event. I'd been waiting all day for its arrival, asking my mother endlessly, "When will daddy be home with the new car?" I stood in the empty garage with anxious excitement as if I was in the sitting area of a hospital, waiting for a new baby to come into our lives. I wasn’t sure where new cars came from. I imagined a giant stork descending upon our house with the car wrapped up in a big white diaper.

I wondered what would become of the old car, the one I rode in my own special seat, allowing me an excellent view of the road before us. I used to look at the rear view mirror and pretend that it was a television show. The headlights especially intrigued me at night, coming into view as tiny white specks that grew into giant luminous arcs that briefly lit up the darkness of the car’s interior and forced me to turn my eyes away from the mirror. My mom told me that we had found a good home for the old car. I was comforted with this knowledge.

We were waiting at the top of the driveway: my mom, my older brother and myself, when we saw the shiny green car turn the corner that led to our gravel street, the only street I’d ever known. “He’s here! He’s here!” I cried as the vehicle slowly approached the entrance to our driveway. I could now see my dad inside the car. He had a proud look on his face as he cautiously drove up the concrete runway that led straight to us. He approached, painfully slow, and sat quietly in the car for a few seconds, enjoying the solitude within the vehicle, before he turned off the ignition and stepped out to the chaotic cries of his children. “We want to go for a ride! Let’s go get ice cream! Can we stay up late and drive around the neighborhood? I want to get in! I want to seeeeeee it!”

My parents looked at each other with the tired smiles parents use when dealing with their children. As they talked about whatever grown-ups talk about, my brother and I jumped into the back seat, our own special domain while on the road. The seats were plush. I ran my fingers over the soft texture of the velvet-like cloth, and checked that the foot well was still large enough to provide comfortable seating. My brother, in the past, had forced me to sit there when he selfishly wanted the whole seat to himself. This new car had seams on the seating that delineated the places where our butts should go. But there was an extra, smaller space right in the middle providing room for an armrest that could be pulled down when desired.

I realized it would be the perfect barrier, separating me from the evil tactics of my brother when I crossed the imaginary line that divided my space from his. I saw a new world opened up to me, free from torturous pinching and unexpected pushes, punches and pulling of hair that I’d suffered through with the old car. Life was grand.

I went to bed that night exhausted by the excitement of the new arrival in our household. The car was safely tucked into the garage for the night, waiting to transport me to the unknown parts of our city, to school, my friends’ homes, on outings to the movies, on road trips to visit my grandparents, to piano lessons, and to get ice cream. The car was my chariot, and through its windows, I would learn about the world.