I once had a car, she was beautiful, and shining. She was
not new when she came to me, she had seen a good life, and a little abuse.
There had been an accident or two, the odd scrape. One or two stupid boys had
left marks or scratches in her. One unknown assailant had even broken a window.
But those hurts were fixed by the time she came to me. Over the years we
covered many miles together, both of us growing in character.
People are a lot like cars. Not these new computerized bits
of plastic, but an old car full of character. We all start with that new car
smell (if you don’t believe me, ask a new mother) Our skin is smooth and shiny,
and we’re forever trying to figure out what all these button and knobs are for.
“Is that my finger? Now what do I do with it? OW OW OW!!!
Eyes are a bad place for fingers.” Etcetera.
Over time, we learn more about what we are, a truck picks up
the dings and scratches of a well used life through work. And many a man has
shed a tear when its finally time for that old truck to go.
Near the end of her life, my car had stained upholstery,
some of the buttons on the radio didn’t work quite right, and very few people
knew just how to turn the key to get her to start, but she was mine, and I
loved every ding and stain, could tell you how most things came to be broken.
Familiarity even lent itself to surprises, like finding that $20 in the center
console I forgot about, or the $1 Susan B. Anthony I put in the change box when
I was 12.
The end came suddenly, in my life that always seems how it
is. A mistimed pressing of the brake, and it was all over. The shine that I
still saw even if it had passed from her years before was finally gone.
Except that it isn’t, now it’s a part of me, part of my
rattle in the ducts, the cough when my engine first starts up. That little bit
of extra character I now carry with me.