My Neighbor Starts Her Car

My neighbor starts her car by gunning it. It annoys me and reminds me of my mother who was always mean to machines, gunning the brown Ford station wagon on the icy driveway that we had happily shoveled with my father. She hated the loss of control over the machines and over us, our enjoying a moment of fresh air with her husband.

My neighbor guns her engine early in the morning under my desk window, diving forward into the empty parking space that belongs to us, backing wildly, then turning out the drive. Does she really need to make such a huge curve to get out? When she returns she dives forward into our space again, and lurches backward into her space. When she sets the alarm the car honks. I've memorized all of her habits, watching her come and go over the years, clutching her over-sized iced coffee and green and white box of cigarettes.

She has jet-black dyed hair and wears baby doll clothes in the summer. She launders incessantly with perfumed soap and dryer sheets. A few years ago her brother hanged himself in a closet. She told me about the mess a hanged body makes. Her daughter is grown up, has her own red Mustang, does the same thing gunning the engine and looping into our parking space.

My neighbor fills her life to the brim, unapologetically. That annoys me, too, but really, it's me I curse. I'm the one who hides, walks rather than drives, worries about disturbing my neighbor, wonders where my next dollar is coming from. I'm terrified that I might be mistaken for my mother.

It has taken me nearly 20 years to feel that I am allowed to live here, to occupy space. It's taken decades to believe that I deserve to be loved. I still have doubts.