I believe in unconditional love. Not the love alluded to from the lips of a young girl who has had her hand held by the cutest boy in class or the declared love scribbled onto a Valentine's Day card that is slipped stealthily into the Lisa Frank notebook of the object of a young boy's obsessions. No, not even the love of chocolate is unconditional. I am talking of a love that doesn't end in embarrassment or shame, a love that never melts in your hands. This love stays by your side when you bawl your eyes out, smearing the meticulously applied eyeliner until your face resembles a cell door. It will stand by your side whether you want it to be there or not, for it knows no other path to traverse. Unconditional love is not as rare as one might imagine, yet it is take for granted daily. I have always had this love, although I have not realized it for these past years of my life. Within the last eight months, this love has emboldened and manifested itself in the form of my first car.

A 1997 Geo Prizm that I have spent my childhood years in has been handed down to me. History is embedded in the crayon stains of the backseat and scratched initials residing on the headrest of the driver's seat. Its lavender paint is riddled with rust spots and black skid marks accrued due to various accidents. When driven under the speed of 50, the car wails obnoxiously in indignation. The tape player would rather eat than play any cassette presented to it, the passenger door of the back seat has a sticky lock, and the cigarette lighter lays in a disarray, as it has for the past decade. And I adore her. A month after I turned sixteen, her key was dangled in front of my questioning eyes . My grades had been less than stellar and my conduct at home had been teetering on the edge of mediocre. Within the hugs that I administered to my mother and father respectively, I discovered the abyssal container of unjudgemental love that lay within their eyes.

This love was still intact when I was pulled over a month ago for speeding on the 435-South heading to the first football game. If I had been driving three miles faster, I would have been carted straight to jail. The initial reaction that I had prepared for was shock, disappointment, and anger. These emotions raged in abundance, yet the outcome of the impromptu family meeting swept the words from off my tongue: I would be allowed to drive the car until the matter had been settled. I was given a second chance, despite the magnitude of the problem I directly caused. With this decision fresh in my mind, I swore to keep a low profile and be the upstanding drivers my parents were. About two weeks later, I rear-ended a Black Volkswagen Jetta and did not inform my parents until a few days later. Though my car was taken away perpetually and it was implied that I was grounded until I was married, my mother listened to the sorrowful repentance between the sobs emitted from the traumatized daughter encircled in her arms. My father cradled both wife and trembling daughter in a tight embrace, crooning simplistic assurances into my ear. That night my mother opted to stroke my hair and wipe the tears from my reddened face, whispering, “Tomorrow's a new day. Don't fret.”

Unconditional love is the show of sacrifice, of the rearrangement of another's priorities to place you in the first slot. My parents have rearranged their schedules to drive me to work and my various extra-curricular activities. I am indebted to them for displaying forgiveness in the wake of familial chaos. I believe in unconditional love, for I have experienced it first hand.