objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are

I sold part of my youth this weekend. No mas Cressie. I knew this day was coming, I even blogged about it earlier, but it didn't really hit me until I pulled her away from the curb for the last time. I followed TP blindly and just relied on his brake lights to send the message to my brake and accelerator foot (not to be confused with my regulator foot), while my mind hurtled back to days gone by.  Sixteen years.  Sixteen shiny-turned-dull, countless tune-ups, tire changes, touch-ups, busticated this, bashed up that years.  If that doesn't spell out how much I like my stuff and dislike change, I don't know what would.  I've given up my college days futon for a proper bed, my milk crates for a lovely bookcase, my upturned cardboard box with a pretty patterned tablecloth to disguise it into a coffee table for nothing.  But I've held on to Cressie for a long long time.  I even gave up the chance of getting a Mercedes in order to keep Cressie!  

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. . . .