Letter to car

Dear car,

It was unfortunate that we met the way we did. You, sitting nearly dormant, driverless for months. Me, averse to driving. We were an unlikely pair. Forced together by necessity, I was so unsteady at the wheel the first time we drove, both scared and careless like a teen with a new license. Little did you know you would never be returning home again, except for visits.

It was the worst part of my life and I dragged you into it. The long trips back and forth from Chicago to Glenview. You, holding a bag for me so I could throw up on the way, completely unaware of my own impending stroke. I was only able to focus on the last month I would have with my mom, your previous owner.

At first it was comforting to have you- you are something of hers that would be with me every day. But cars aren’t sentimental. They are just steel and paint and plastic that breaks. You were however, a new freedom I had never experienced. I would no longer be dependent on anyone to take me anywhere. Only dependent on me and of course you. Not only could I carry myself from A to B, I could take others. I could be depended on. I’m sure my mom would be happy to know she enabled this wonderful unintended but important independence.

Car, we have a lot of fond memories. You took me to marathon training practice. You took on road trips. You took me and countless friends to social gatherings. You were the thing I loved most about my ex-husband; he taught me how to park you and also made a hand drawn map to Ikea to keep with you at all times. I have packed you full of groceries, alley finds, pets, and most notably suitcases of sex toys during my late sales career. You were amenable to the ex-boyfriends changing your brakes and oil and patient throughout Chicago’s worst winter storms. And the blowtorching. Sorry about that. You got me where I needed to go and I was always grateful.

But the repairs have become too frequent. And each day seems to bring a new quirky problem to light. I know some of them were my fault- like when I barreled into a snow drift and took a chunk out of the front bumper. Or when I managed to get into a fender bender in the parking lot of the National Safety Council. And even early on when I first drove you in the city and brushed a brand new parked car. And now you’re 14. You’re not a little kid. You have begun acting out. The check engine light is on. The brake light is on. The A/C is out. The armrest that has come unhitched. And the cassette player, just because it’s a cassette player.

Your days are numbered.

The moment that pushed me to it was when your brakes decided to quit and I was forced to simply glide my way to the mechanic. I always knew I would drive you til the bitter end. And now that time has come. I hope you find a nice mechanic who will believe in your potential, fix you and give you your next 90 thousand miles. Farewell, old friend.