As I drove up 13th Street to deliver the title, keys, and goods to some Craigslist stranger, I couldn't stop the feeling of nostalgia overwhelm me. I listened to mix cassette tapes on long drives, I engaged in ear-piercingly loud fights with LB (where the backseat passengers would get anxious and try to make peace between us only to find themselves the victim of our arguments because, unbeknownst to them, we quite enjoy fighting with each other), and I have criss-crossed various cities and always arrived home safely in this car. THIS is the car that had a carpet sample in the trunk so that the inevitable salaan dish that would spill over wouldn't stain the trunk itself. THIS is the car that LB argued with Mom about not losing the back of her gold earring only to lose the back of her gold earring in. THIS is the car that I fell in love in, drove to and from the courthouse after our wedding, drove to and from the hospital after our kids were born.
It has ZP's artwork in white crayon in the back. It has a Clarksville, Indiana sticker on the license plate holder. It has sixteen years of memories. When some sappy romantic song popped onto the radio, you know the kind - the ones that have no meaning until you are feeling utterly sentimental and then suddenly it seems as though every lyric speaks volumes and is exactly what you are going through right now - I almost felt tears well up (and I'm not a tear-welling-up kind of gal). I caught TP waving his hand and looking at me in the rear view mirror. I half-heartedly waved back and hugged the steering wheel and mouthed, "MINE!" He shook his head, waved back more energetically, and smiled and I realized, yes, I was saying goodbye to my past, but I was following my future. Veevee held my husband, my toddler, and my infant. I'm sure she'll have just as many high adventures and poignant memories before too long. She won't be Cressie, but she'll do. I believe I saw several smashed Cheerios and my Stephen Malkmus CD on the floor under the seat already. . . .