You are a reluctant choice,
picked for your prudence and caution
in a world where fashion can no longer rule us.
We hold out as long as we can, mocking you,
shaming you, peering down our noses until,
begrudgingly, one by one, we succumb
to reason, to safety, to function over form.  

We choose you for your adjustable seating,
your passenger airbags and reasonable mileage.
We choose you with hearts of resigned acceptance,
fearing you’ll brand us cliché, and
never appreciating that you’ll be so much more
than a necessary evil, a practical getter-of-groceries
for the family of five.

But you are more.
You are a toy box and a trash can,
a respite from excessive heat and rain delays.
You are a beauty salon, a dressing room,
a changing station, and a movie theater.

With your frontwheel drive and sensible radial tires
you proudly deliver the winning kickers to the game,
just as you’ll tote the losing ones to ColdStone
for a frozen sympathetic remedy.
Within your side-impact-protected walls
we learn who’s been kissed
and who’s in love as we listen in
on hushed conversations whispered
in our forgotten invisible presence.

So, don’t despair,
when dad slouches low, pulls his hat down
and heaves a gloomy, embarrassed sigh
as he shifts into drive.
Or when mom stares longingly as the little
red convertible zips playfully past in the nearby lane.

Because inside those dual sliding doors,
we gather around your nineteen cupholders
like the Knights of Camelot –
addressing concerns, solving problems,
doling out punishments
(and snacks)
while we navigate the realities of this new life.

Be proud, Minivan, because
even as we take your name in vain,
even as we rue the day you rolled quietly into our lives
and solidified our youthful demise,
we entrust you with our most precious cargo.