Remembering

On Saturday morning I had nothing to do. I meandered outside into my driveway, kicking at lose asphalt and dry leaves. I slowly walked to our silver van, opening its rusted door, a tiny piece of paint chipping off the handle.
As the door swung open, the sunshine streamed onto the dull gray material. I sat down on the middle seat, thinking to myself how fast time flies, I chanted over and over in my head, "Sam is turning 18. 18! He's actually going to leave for college! 18! College!"
I stared down at the beaten old floor mat, remembering the many feet that had trampled it. The old van almost seemed to creak in remembrance too. Our Silver Bullet(aka: the van)has served us well for seven years, and is now the junky one compared to our new gold Honda.
Our Silver Bullet doesn't have automatic doors, or a super-nice sound system, or a pop-up table, it can't switch the track on a CD from the steering wheel or even blast cool air for more than a couple hours, but our beloved silver van holds so many memories.
It holds sandy feet from Rehoboth beach, it holds mud and sweat from thousands of soccer games. It holds the wins and the losses, the ups and the downs. This van has a map for crazy adventures, instructions on how to get lost, and a GPS that always knows the way home.
This van holds dirt from the wild west, laughter and music, hymns from Sunday mornings when there was no church, and unforgettable conversations. On the floor, as I look, I remember many liquid spills, chip bags opened improperly and strewn across the floor.
I sighed and let the memories take me away for awhile, before I would forget them. Who knew a van could hold so much?