I walked through the open doorway toward the 1930′s Cadillac then stopped; it was a shiny black beast idling lowly like a growling animal warning of it presence. My little toes were numb as I stood just past the open doorway, snow blowing into the cabin, piling strangely in small drifts. For what seemed like such a long time, I just stood there. Heat rolling out of the house as the wood stove burned hot, trying to fight back the frigid winter night. I just let the winter in. Tonight, I did not care. The ice and wind blew straight into the house, whipping past my hair and freezing my ears nearly off. I considered walking closer to the big black car, its back door wide open in a way that possibly could be considered inviting. Just when I thought the coldness of the night would force me to make a decision, cabin or car, a gust of hot air from the house blew around me, keeping me warm enough so I could drag out my choice just one moment more.

Going back into the house was not an option. I really knew this all along, but I liked to think I had a choice. No one was in the house anymore. In fact, it had been empty for a long time. Dust and cobwebs built up in the neglected corners, not unlike those neglected intangible now unfulfilled needs that weighed me down, such as loneliness. No one had shone a light into those dark parts in a long time, and the house too mostly stayed dark. No noise, no light, the curtains stayed pulled during the day, and no candles were lit at night. Only in the winter would the dim light come from the hot wood stove, but I often forgot to close the windows, so not even the heat was around for long.

It was now always dark, dirty, and cold with small bursts of light and heat to stave of the inevitable; one day I would have to leave. But it was never today, always tomorrow. Tomorrow I would leave, maybe. Tomorrow I would clean the house, and close the windows. After all, I couldn’t leave it in a mess; I couldn’t let anyone see what I left behind. If I waited to clean the house until tomorrow, I wouldn’t have to leave until tomorrow -or so I rationalized.

The car came, unexpectedly, like most big black shiny Cadillac’s do. One day it just pulls up, opens its door, and expects you to get in whether your house is clean or not.

I think I was six when the car came for me. Or maybe I was ninety six. I didn’t feel old, and I certainly didn’t look old. I looked like I always look in my head. I will forever look the way I remember looking. The mirror doesn’t always tell the truth; it has slowly changed over time into someone I no longer recognize. Sure, it can tell some truths, but it is in no way all encompassing and certainly doesn’t seem to reflect my truths properly anymore. I am how I look in your head, which is often very different from how other people see me.

I know some people see me as young, and some see me as old. Some see me as smart or maybe talented, but some will always see me as just plain crazy. They also see what the mirror tells them to see, and always put their own spin on what is masquerading as truth.

I will always know the truth though, but I will never tell. It’s not like anyone outside of me would actually be able to see the mirror in my own head anyways. Besides, it would spoil the surprise. I like surprises. I like the type of adventurous surprises that come masked as a big black Cadillac in the middle of the coldest winter night.

A nylon nightgown was all I was wearing. Not sure why I chose a knee length sheer nightgown to wear on this coldest night, but I did. It didn’t offer any protection from the cold, just as your hair doesn’t offer any protection from your coldest of thoughts. But it definitely pretends to.

Pretending is something I am not good at. I am not good at pretending it’s not time to leave, even though the warm car is waiting for me, offering relief from the cold winter wind. I cannot pretend I want to go, but I cannot pretend that there is anyone waiting for me back inside the cabin, you know, just in case I actually do have a choice at the very end. I cannot pretend I do not know where the car is taking me. I know. I have been waiting, and trying my best to pretend I have not really been waiting all this time.

This is the big game. Eventually the car will come. The car comes for everyone. Sometimes people still have their family at home, but the car takes them away indifferent to their reality. No matter what, everyone must pretend the car is a long way away. This is the unspoken rule. They can watch the car drive off with every one they know, that’s what I did, and they all still pretend the car is either far away or that maybe the car will just forget them all together. This is the game, and these are the rules.

I hate the game, and I hate pretending to play the game. I cannot really play the game; that requires a level of naivety I no longer possess. But even now, with the cold winter winds blowing around me as I strangely find myself standing even closer to the car and further away from the warm house, I still try to pretend to play the game. I try to pretend I still have time.

What I would do with this time? I really don’t know. After all, it’s not like I have anyone left to enjoy it with. The car came for them years ago. Maybe this means I am not six, or maybe I have always been six. Why not? If I am whatever I am in my head, I don’t see why I can’t be six. Six sounds good. Six sounds like time, although this is a farce too.

If I consider myself to be six, maybe I can have a little success in pretending I still have time.

Maybe I can pretend that the car is not really THE car either.

Nope, that didn’t work. But I am six. I am six years old, and naive to time. I am also now very cold.

Just as I was startled to see myself closer to the black Cadillac a minute ago, or maybe was it an hour, I am now surprised to see myself even further away from the dirty, empty, dark cabin. I’ve changed my mind. I no longer like surprises. I have now decided I especially don’t like big black Cadillac surprises, and I don’t like this game anymore because I don’t think I can win.

I like to win games. Because I must win the games, I never play them at all. If I play a game, I could lose. So, I don’t play. Simple. I never pretended the car wouldn’t come. In fact, I thought about the car coming every day. But for some reason, I always thought the car would come tomorrow rather than never, like everyone else pretends. Tomorrow just seemed like a safe bet. No me, not today, the car is far far away.

The car is no longer far far away. Now I can actually see the car, waiting for me patiently, but definitely not leaving without me. Yet I still try to see if I can make it wait until tomorrow. Maybe if I can slow down my unintended creeping toward its interior, I can make it wait. I want one more tomorrow.

I get great satisfaction in making the car wait for me, and today I will make it wait until tomorrow. I can and will out wait the car, even on this coldest of cold winter nights. I will make it wait for me until the sun comes up. No one likes to get into an unknown car at night; that just seems like a bad idea. The sun seems to make things a little friendlier, so I will make it wait.

My fingers are cold and my bare toes are completely numb, but I give not a thought to this discomfort as my mind keeps returning to the old cabin I was leaving behind. Clinging would probably be a better description, as I was remembering all the fun times I had there. The happy memories of the cabin before everyone left, before it got dark and dirty. I don’t think about those later days. I like to remember the days with everyone there. People, lots of people were there, and lots of animals too.

In the distance, the sky begins to turn gray. The stars dim in the sky. I realize the icy wind has frozen the tear lines down my face. I didn’t even realize I was crying. I was leaving an old empty cold dirty cabin behind, and this greatly upset me. Even though I couldn’t pretend everyone would come back, I still wanted to see what would happen if I just waited a little longer.

Just a little longer. That’s all I wanted. But everyone else I loved wanted just a little longer too, and they didn’t get to stay so why should I. I didn’t have an answer, other than maybe I wanted to stay just a little more than they did, but even that was too hard for me to believe. I know they wanted it too. Time: Days, minutes, seconds, just a little more time.

I always wanted just a little more time, and now I knew that all I would get was just a little more. Now, close enough to the car’s open door that I could smell its antique interior; I still wanted just a bit little more. I knew that I wouldn’t get days, but maybe I could now bargain for hours. Last night I bargained for tomorrow and now that tomorrow was here, I would now bargain for hours. Then I could bargain for minutes, then seconds, then….

I was secretly hoping that if I kept halving the time I had left before I would have to get in the big shiny black Cadillac, that no matter how much time I had left, I would still have just a little more.

Eventually I ran out of “just a little more’s”. My tiny six year old body was suddenly beside the open door; completely against my will, I kept moving closer. The sun was now peeping over the mountains. I did not have any more time.

Maybe, I began to rationalize, once I got inside the car I could have a little more time in there before it drove off. I rationalized all the time I could. A little here, a little there, stolen bits of time that didn’t really exist outside my head. I suppose this is what they call borrowing time. The little bits of time I was taking now certainly did not belong to me.

The door was now shut, and I was inside. I looked through the frosty glass at the old dilapidated cabin. Windows open, smoke still rising out of the chimney, door wide open with snow drifts rising half way up the gaping entry way. The cabin was now a part of the past. Part of my past I would never go back to. I forgot about running out of time. Now I just tried to now remember the cabin when it was full of people. I tried to remember my people.

At some point I even stopped trying to remember. At some point I stopped clinging to the past. At some point I actually completely forgot everything.

At some unknown, unmemorable point, I stopped being anything but a six year old girl in a big shiny black Cadillac. I knew nothing of the cabin. I knew nothing of my people. I knew nothing about the many faces of me in the mirror.

All I knew was that I was going for a ride.