Even more interesting to see, as it glinted in the waking sunlight, was that it had formed itself to the shmear, shall we call it?, left by my windshield wipers from the evening before; I’d used nearly the last of my washer fluid to clean the windshield.

So, this morning, I had crystals galore, streaked in long, fluid (and a little tattered-y, because my wipers are in jeopardy of learning cursive handwriting, so bad are they) rivers of frozen delight.

I know this is going to be what happens most winter mornings in Mississippi. Well, the ice is an exception, usually it’s just a fat smothering of rude dew. But, nonetheless, I wait until the last minute to leave for work and then, naturally, sit in the car frustrated because the windshield won’t defrost quickly enough.

I had the bright idea, yesterday morning, to run back in the house, and grab a glass of hot water and throw on the windshield. That’ll teach it, I thought.

I suppose “bright” isn’t the right adjective.

But not this morning. No, lesson learned, I decided to hunt down my own ice scraper.

That’s right, I have one. Amanda gave it to me, I think. And as she’d so kindly scraped my window over the weekend, I was reminded that I, too, had an ice scraper.

I just didn’t know where it was.

All right, you hide and I'll count.

Did I?

I was running a few minutes late, as usual, today, and so as I sat stewing in my car about the cold with my hot cup of Black Chai Tea with milk and sugar (my version, as of late, of coffee), it dawned on me: The ice scraper is in the trunk.

Because isn’t everything always in the trunk?

I hopped out, into the bitter frigid air (as opposed to Westinghouse), and popped my frozen trunk open.

And was greeted, of course, with all the obvious items that trunks hold: a beachcomber hat, a car Radio/CD player to be installed, a box of headshots, a boa, jumper cables, and a songbook collection of Mahalia Jackson’s greatest gospel hits. But no ice scraper.

Then again, did you expect it to be there?

However, I was immediately seized by a wide array of emotions. I was excited to see the hat. I thought I’d lost it, and merely looking at it made me think of my annual trip to the beach, which would have been a delicious road trip right about that time of the morning. I was disappointed that I’d still, still, not had that blame car Radio/CD player installed. I’ve been without in-car musical entertainment since my timing belt was replaced last January.

I keep forgetting to call the dealership about that ridiculous safety code.

Furthermore, I was relieved that I’d not lost that expensive box of headshots, and with the exception of the current crisis that is my hair color, also glad that I’d not changed all that much, thus eliminating the need to buy new ones.

The boa I will not explain. The jumper cables are a stand-by in any vehicle, I’d imagine, and the songbook, well… that one should be obvious. I may have even prayed a little, after I saw it.

How they all came to be collected together like an immigrant family in the trunk of my car is something that I, frankly, can’t explain. Even if I wanted to.

There they all lay, piled on top of each other, staring at me, looking forgotten and pitiful as they each, in turn, brought back some mild memory of “then,” and “Remember that time?”

I don’t know why I got emotional about it, but I did. I ignored the cold and dug around even deeper in my trunk, making myself later and later, pretending my nose was running on purpose, to discover several other MIA items: my tennis bag full of unused equipment, U.L.’s traveling plastic cake plate, another beach hat, a Gershwin songbook, copies of a script I’d just about given up on three years ago, a letter from an old friend, several large pieces of blank foam core, a picture of a family trip to the mountains in a frame too large for it, a book of Yeats’ poems, and a missing left hand wool glove.

How had this happened?

How had this much of my life become trunk-worthy? And it had all been held away so safely and dry through various rains, snows, winds, even Katrina. I mean, some of this stuff had been missing for years.

Or, so I thought.

But, it hadn’t.

NOTE: I did not find these children in my trunk. But, if I had, I would've made them change shirts.

It’d all been tucked away, waiting for just this moment, this bizarre amalgamation of not just my working life, but my hobby life, my academic life, my writing life, my acting life, my family life…all of it, I guess, just waiting for this busy, stressed-out, cold morning to remind me to slow down. To stop. To do more than just make a memory—to find a safe place to put it.

Maybe some place better than the trunk, huh?

Either way, it got to me, this morning.

I couldn’t help myself.

I don’t know if I can ever sell this car now.

…

(Yes, I can).

Though thankfully, by the time I got back in the car, the windshield had defrosted.

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