My Chrysler was a survivor. Hidden piles of broken glass and leather seats split to foam. Summer of ‘99 and sailing down a gravel road named after a tree and a stone. And when we came to a stop, the dust did not. Meanwhile, the radio implores me to get it back 2 good.

I drag my sneakers with white socks pulled up to the shin to the only lonely structure on this stretch of land. A pole building painted ivory and evergreen. It’s mostly empty and smelling of raccoon **** and rusted metal. I grab the machete from the bench and get to work.

My squinted gaze is locked on the acres of horseweed ahead as I dramatically roll my eyes and walk down a freshly mown path. The unending task of the swing and the hack. Piles of severed green. My dad might call this agricultural TLC, but I am feeling very unpretty.

I distract myself from the labor with my Sony Walkman—mustard gold. She’s got EXPMAX technology with 40-second shockproof memory. The headphones move from my sissyneck to my sissyears and I’m pulled by a derelict wind to anywhere other than my own body.

That is, until the blade hits bone. My kneecap is now split in half by a sanguine smile. Its teeth of bubbling fat laugh at how my husky body runs. Its small mouth pouring its way down my calf. My sock, now a magician, is changing colors with effortless conviction.

The panic carries me down the street. Bless the neighbors and their butterfly bandages. Bless the glass of lemonade and a ring to my mother. Bless this memory buried deep under scar tissue purple and pink.

I now realize my first car and I had something in common. All this blood and gristle and glass needed an impact to be set free. Baz Luhrmann told me to be kind to my knees. But I blame it all on the ******* horseweed.