To my first car,
When I (finally!) received a key to the station wagon that my family had been driving since before I could remember, you had definitely seen better days. You had scratches on your leather, worn off paint on pretty much every door, stains on your carpet, a radio that barely worked and crumbs pretty much everywhere imaginable. I didn’t care about any of that—you ran, and that was pretty much all I could ask for. To me, the possibilities you offered were endless—together; we could drive to California, New York City, over the river and through the woods. I know I didn’t always treat you the best, but you stuck with me through pretty much everything a junior in high school could go through.
You miraculously made your radio work whenever I absolutely needed to angry-scream Taylor Swift at a ridiculously high volume. Though towards the end you could barely push yourself over 50 mph, you still chugged along whenever I needed to go on one of my (many) long drives to clear my head. Your ugly tan leather upholstery provided the perfect camouflage for whenever I needed to hide from an ex, change quickly before work or just lay down in the backseat for a second. Your steering wheel, once gripped by my parents and older sister, still hung on strong whenever I collapsed against it in tears, frustration or any of the many emotions my hormones chose for me to feel that day.
Though to others you were just an ugly, tan Volvo v70 station wagon, to me, you were everything I needed. I made more memories with you than I did with many of my friends, and I’ll never forget all the time we spent together. The day I cleaned you out for the last time, vacuumed your carpets for the last time, and sat in the driver’s seat behind the wheel for the last time was one of the most emotional days I’ve experienced thus far. Not just because of all the memories associated with the things that been under your seats or in your trunk for what seemed like 20 years, but because of everything we had been through together. From me spilling juice, Goldfish and ice cream in your back seat to kissing that cute boy for the first time in the front seat, you weren’t just a car—you were part of the family. You sat steadfast in the driveway, rain or shine, snow or ice, and were always up to go anywhere my little heart desired.
The day the Salvation Army picked you up was heartbreaking. I watched them drive off, you sitting on the bed of the tow truck and couldn’t help but tear up. You were my first car, and you were the best car I could have asked for. You were my first love and gave me my first real taste of freedom and independence, and for that I cannot thank you enough—or for never judging, never failing and always understanding. You had more personality in your gear shift than most people have in their pinky fingers.
Thank you, Lolita. I love you, and hope you’re resting peacefully in car heaven.
~R.I.P Lolita, 2001-2014~
(one of many embarassing behind-the-wheel selfies taken in your big, comfy drivers seat)