A Bittersweet Farewell

Yesterday I said goodbye to my beloved minivan.

15 years.

More than 100,000 miles.

A million memories.

As I drove the van across town for the last time with tears on my face, I was flooded with memories of moments, both big and small; moments that told a story.

A story of kids, pets, heartache, and joy. A story of a family.

I never thought of my car as a scrapbook for memories but there it was, revealing itself in a very new way.

I remembered trips with my family. Trips to stores and restaurants and preschool and elementary school and middle school and high school. Trips to California. Trips to the beach. Trips to the desert. And many trips to the economy parking lot at the airport so we could fly to places across the country and around the world.

I remembered trips with our dogs and cats to the vet and the park and the beach and to Zoey’s chemotherapy appointments. So many chemo appointments. I saw puppies and kitties coming home for the first time and some of them taking their final rides to their big goodbyes. This set off a new set of tears.

I remembered trips with my closest friends and trips with my daughters and their friends. It was always great to have a big car.

I remembered trips to plays and concerts and gatherings with friends and family. My car had parked in parking lots, parking garages and in fields of dirt and grass. We drove on highways and gravel roads, and it always kept on going, getting us safely from one place to another.

I remembered trips to campgrounds to sleep in tents and trips to stay in yurts and in hotels. The car was always big enough to carry the bikes and hold all our gear.

I remembered trips when moving from one home to another and then to yet another. I filled the van with plants and paintings and cherished items and all that was needed to set up our homes ahead of time. A new kind of welcome wagon.

I remembered all the dings and scratches on the exterior and the one rear sliding door that had to be opened manually. I can’t even remember how many years ago the electronics to that door stopped working.

I remembered the 16-year-old kid who backed into the van at the gym just weeks after getting his driver’s license. He left me a note. The damage was very minor, but my heart swelled with grace as he took responsibility. I hope someday my kids will do the same.

I remembered trips to hospitals and doctor appointments for my family and myself. I’m grateful for the car’s role in our healing journey.

As I drove across town to relinquish the van, the memories just kept coming, blurring the line between the stories that lived in my memory and the stories that were held inside the car.

I was filled with gratitude, whispering “thank you” over and over again as I drove into the dealership to drop off the car.

As I parked the minivan for the last time, I thought I heard her say, “it was my pleasure.”