"Leaving looks like a blue Oldsmobile."

When I was younger I always hated for my mom to leave for bingo. I would stand in front of her, hold onto the car by the windows, cry, tell her that bingo shouldn't be more important, and eventually, give up. My mom always left, and my dad would have to spend his afternoons consoling a crying kid, which I hated. I hated to be consoled, and I mostly still do.

My experiences with my mom and her bingo were no different from any kid being upset when a parent leaves for work, so why do I still feel so sad when I think about her car driving away without me all those times?

One day we were both in the middle of my road, her in her car and me in bare feet, and I was in the middle of one of my normal fits. I made a funny face, though, one I had never made before, and my mom laughed. It's one of the few memories I have of her sincerely laughing and sounding happy. She told me to go show my daddy the face I had just made.

"You'll me leave while I'm doing that," I told her. I was probably still holding onto her halfway-down car window.

She assured me she wouldn't, so I ran between my pear trees, onto the front porch, and showed my daddy the face. He wasn't as amused as my mother, but I think he at least smiled.

The strange thing about that was, even though I fully believed she would be gone when I ran back outside to her car, her little blue Oldsmobile was still there waiting for me. I got to see her and whine to her for a little bit longer. Of course, she did leave for bingo only a few minutes later, but the fact that she didn't drive away even though she had the chance has always meant a lot to me.