Now, it’s just a jut of car-bones and twisty tailpipes. Junkyard, Daddy calls it. We drive our ancient Honda there. The one where I was made, Mama once confessed before she died. The junkyard man counts out thirty dollars. I guess we can sell this for parts, he says. I think about my mama dying slowly, her heart unbeating, her liver, and then. I look at the ground under a pile of cars and wonder why someone didn’t plant trees here instead. Daddy taps me on the shoulder, Cab’s here, he says. Now that the car I was made in is gone, I wonder what will happen to me. I look out the back window of the cab, the doorless cars, the crunched-up fenders blending into one uncertain blur.

Photo credit: Jeremy Bezanger