All of my family members have different cars. Dad’s is smooth and sleek like silk stroking your skin. Mom’s car is Babe Ruth— clunky like fitting a box through a doorway, but powerful. Molly’s car loves to be dirty. Cleaning it for her gave me a renewed view on recycling. Patrick’s car is easy and inviting. Driving it feels like lying on an old, loving leather sofa. Kevin’s car is like him— never around. Describing it is difficult without it here. Finally, my car is lukewarm. It works diligently like a mule, but doesn’t exceed expectations, feels safe but never welcoming, and melts away amongst other cars without the ability to stand out.