This Old Car

“When are you going to get a new car?”

I hear this just about every time a friend sees my old car. Usually these words are accompanied by a good-natured chuckle.

“Betsy,” my car, is old, about 18 years, in fact. She was a gift from my great grandmother, when I turned 16. I say “gift,” because she was a gift to me, even though I think my parents paid a small sum for her. She was old when I got her, but she was mine.

Betsy is beautiful—white (when I actually wash her), with a blue interior, the most comfortable cloth seats ever, and all the bells and whistles you could possibly buy in 1996. This car does things that newer cars today can’t even do. Despite her age, I’m very proud of her. Every time I've taken her to a mechanic, they've informed me that she’s in impeccable condition, with low mileage, and that I've taken excellent care of her engine and workings.  

I. Love. This. Car.

When I moved to Virginia, she was there with me, taking me safely to my new destination, and bringing me swiftly back when I needed to be home again. I was alone, so I became even more attached to my car here than ever. She’s trust-worthy, stable, reliable, and represented freedom: always my escape route if things got too tough.

But she’s come to represent more than that. Because she used to be owned by my great grandmother, Mom Mom, I feel this tie to her, through this old car. I didn't even really realize how much Betsy had come to sort of represent Mom Mom until the other day when her bumper was hit and cracked. I've owned the car for 9 years, but last week was the first time anything had ever happened to her.

On the same day, I went to visit Mom Mom. Now, all my life, in my eyes, Mom Mom has never aged. She’s always been the same white-haired beauty. But this past weekend, I saw her for the first time in 6 months, also for the first time since her husband had passed away.

She was so old. She looked as if her body and appearance had finally caught up to her 93 years. She was frail and thin, with oxygen tubes attached to her. She was in excellent spirits and talked to me just like always, but it scared me. It was almost as if the crack in Betsy’s bumper represented the sudden change of health that I had seen in my great grandma.

And that’s why I cling to my car so much. It’s something I can have some sort of control over. You see, I can fix that bumper. I can replace it. It’ll cost money, but it’s easily done in a day. Betsy will be as good as new. I can keep replacing parts over and over, buying new engines and transmissions for decades. But Mom Mom is frailer than that. There is nothing I can do to restore her back to former health.

And I don’t like that.

So, you can keep on asking why I keep this poor old car, so out of date and fashion. You can keep telling me she’s unreliable. But at the end of the day, she probably runs better than your 2000-and-something car, and I probably know more about what happens under her engine than you do about your BMW. But more than that, she’s something that I can still put back together, fix her up and keep her in good health. Maybe that’s a stupid reason. Maybe I’m just grasping at straws, trying to control at least one element in my life. And maybe you’d be right. But maybe that’s what I need. 

Dear Anita

Grief is great tonight. 

My soul hangs heavy with sorrow, like a cloud drooping low with rain. 

I wasn't prepared. But who ever really is prepared for death? Were you, in your last hours? A peace deep within me tells me you were. 

But even that peace doesn't nullify the sickness in my soul. They sent me home early from work yesterday because I was crying. It was hours before I even stopped--only to start again. You were taken too soon, too young to go. I don't understand. 

You know, there were times when I didn't really like you. When I was 17 you caught me talking to someone during class. You asked me if I had anything to share. I was humiliated, but deserved it. Sometimes I didn't like class or grades. Sometimes I didn't like your direction. 

And yet, we worked together for years. First as teacher an pupil, later as director and actor. Even later, when I was older, sometimes I'd come to your classes and you'd ask me to teach the new kids how to play the improv games. 

I don't know when it happened, but over time, you slipped your way into my heart. You weren't just a teacher anymore, but a friend. Later, you were more like family, a motherly figure. 

And that's the funny thing about relationships. Often we can't put a finger on the moment they develop or become more important. They just open up slowly, like the bloom of a flower. Before I knew it, you had become one of the most important people in my life. I knew that even when you left for Texas. It broke my heart to see you go.

Now, I'm no good at this grieving thing. I don't get it. I don't know how it's done. But Anita, you've left such a hole in my heart. I don't know how to fill it. When I'm not crying, my soul is. 

I guess the bottom line is this: I don't know what to do without you. And I hope that I said it to you when I had the chance, but, I love you, Anita.