What-if

My car is a plethora of what-ifs.

There’s air-dry clay in the trunk in case I suddenly feel the urge to make something imperfect with my hands. Acrylic paint and a pad tucked beneath the passenger seat, just in case a color combination insists on being tried. A swimsuit that’s lived there so long it’s practically part of the upholstery..because what if I pass the ocean at golden hour and decide the rest of my plans can wait?

There’s a tennis racket that hums with ambition. Running shoes that have seen spontaneous miles and long, dramatic monologues to Lana. A spare set of clothes folded messily serving as insurance for the version of me who says yes without thinking first. 

Palo santo rolls around in the center console. Crystals clink softly when I take a sharp turn. Old keepsakes live in the glove compartment like quiet witnesses: pebbles from the beach, a pressed flower, an amusement park ticket from an afternoon that felt pivotal at the time.

I’ve had this car since I was sixteen. It has held high school tears, post-grad reinventions, canyon drives, silent commutes, smooches, arguments, fast food bags, and long stretches of highway where I performed like I was auditioning for a segment.

It’s more than a vehicle: it’s a permission slip.

Everything inside it whispers the same thing: what if?

What if I make art today.

What if I change direction.

What if I don’t go straight home.

What if I let myself be the girl who tries.

My car doesn’t represent clutter to me. It represents readiness. A quiet devotion to whim. It’s been with me through so many versions of myself, and somehow it still makes space for the next one.

A vessel of creativity.

A moving archive.

A container for every small, brave what-if.