A few days ago, the odometer on my car flipped past 100,000 miles, reminding me of the fact that I need to begin thinking about obtaining a different vehicle. I travel quite a bit so I need a car that is dependable.
Blended with my thoughts about needing a new(er) car is that nagging sense of sentimentality that is all too familiar. As my basement can attest, I hang on to too many things for sentimental reasons. I can never find them when I want to take a trip down memory lane, but something about knowing I have them packed away somewhere seems to be enough to appease that side of me that hates, and sometimes refuses, to let go.
I bought my current car, a forest green Dodge Neon, in 1998—two years before my dad died. He sat in my passenger seat dozens of times as we had long conversations about politics, family matters, sports, and every other thing that fathers and sons normally talk about. He was tall and I can still see him scrunching up his legs to fit into my little matchbox of a car. He was a smoker, but always respected my "no-smoking" car. He was a coffee drinker and I can still see him holding his plastic coffee mug in his right hand as he pointed me to the nearest gas station so he could get a refill.
Giving up the car we shared so many such memories will not be easy. Just thinking about it brings a sense of uneasiness. Everybody else, including the person or car dealer that I sell the car too, will have no knowledge of the car's history. To that person, it'll simply be the same type of transaction that is carried out multiple times every day. But for me, it'll be much more than that.
I'll do it anyway when the time comes because much of life is about "doing it anyway." But it'll still be a sad day.
