Crawling on hands and knees, I enter the small space behind the clothes in my closet. I
shut the closet door behind me to prevent any unwanted interruptions. I turn on the white noise machine and crank the flashlight until it glows a dull orange hue. Legs pulled to my chest, I reach for the small purple box filled with trinkets and memorabilia. This safe space keeps me grounded, a rather healthy coping mechanism I am unaware of until years later. So much nostalgia for someone who is only 13. I pull the long, flat key out of the box and turn it over in my fingers until they start to smell like wet pennies. I graze the tips of my fingers along the teeth until the skin rubs raw. I place it back in the box, sink back onto the wall, close my eyes, and let the white noise drown out existence.
It’s Saturday morning. The smell of coffee slinks in through the crack under my door and
envelopes my nose. I spring out of bed before the familiar fatherly footsteps could reach me. Gameday. I slick my hair back into the tight pony and suction my sports glasses to my face. If I was anything at the age of 7, it was fashion-forward. I collect my things and greet my father downstairs as he prepares my ritualistic egg in a boat. We sit down in front of the newspaper and he quizzes me on NFL team locations. Practice definitely makes perfect, since I haven’t missed one in weeks. The tiny colored helmets represent the matchups for the impending Sunday games. He always lets me check the box of the prettiest helmet, regardless of accuracy. With the last few bites of my buttery bread circle, my father realizes the time and hurries me out of the house into the garage. The fall air greets us and sends a shiver down my spine. I sling my pungent soccer bag into the trunk and climb into the backseat, sitting diagonally from the driver’s side. My father slowly lowers his body into the seat with the golden key clutched between his thick fingers. The sound of metal teeth against plastic pierces my ears as he fumbles it into the ignition. The 1997 gold Infiniti I30 sputters to life. Reliable as she was, there was always a tense moment before she
completely turned over. Tears in the tan leather seats fray the fabric of my shorts. The
smiley-face stickers that clutter the window’s edge are starting to turn gray around the edges. Good thing I was three when I placed them there, I didn’t have to defend my actions. The faint smell of cigarettes and newspapers calm my pregame jitters. My father requests a cassette that was thrown haphazardly into the backseat and I oblige. It whirs to life and Blackbird by the Beatles starts immediately. I match the somber rhythmic beat with my breathing as we speed towards the soccer fields. I listen to my father faintly harmonize with the lyrics, and try to imagine what it was like when he was in a band. Background vocals are completely underrated. The harmony turns to whistles, something I may never master. He taps on the steering wheel with his thumbs and rounds the corner into the parking lot.
I slowly open my eyes which are now lined with tears. The idiosyncratic smell of fall
mixed with leather, cigarettes, and newspapers from the early 2000s lives on only in my memory. I press the dirty key to my lips to feel its cool touch and smell its metallic tang. It’s the only tangible piece I have left from those Saturdays. I never knew how much an old car and song could mean to a little girl on her way to soccer. The outcomes of those games fade away, but the journey towards them sits in the forefront of my mind. The golden key represents so much more than my dad’s old Infiniti. It unlocks a time when I worshipped my father, before I knew any better than to trust him blindly and feel nothing but unconditional love. A time before I burst into tears at the first few notes of Blackbird. A time when my biggest source of anxiety was a soccer game. I place the key back in its box one last time, turn the sound machine off, and wait for the orange glow of the flashlight to fade into darkness.