It’s been very busy. Partially an awful busy. So many hardships that are much more important than mine and what I’m doing here, that I thought of taking a break and shelving this blog for a while. It’s still tempting. But I remembered I made this promise, not only to whoever finds themselves here, but to myself that I would keep chronicling this journey in hopes it brings some solace to someone, anyone – even me. And this journey is still so far from over.
I’d written a few entries and saved them, letting time come in and give space to all that’s happened recently. But I’ve decided to pull them out, dust them off and start posting again. So here we go:
Dad didn’t care much for things, but he loved his toys. Big boy toys that fed his adrenaline – boats and cars and anything fast enough to part his lips into a wild grin, really. But above them all was the 1972 Corvette Stingray that he bought new all those years ago. It’s a beautiful deep blue, like his eyes that would widen with excitement as his heart beat and the speedometer would rise when he drove it.
It’s become like another family member over the years, and has been the stage for so many wonderful memories. When my brother and I were fussy babies, dad would pile us in and drive around the block – letting the deep hum of the engine sing us to sleep. Growing up, I’d beg for rides, and when old enough myself, would take it for drives around the edges of our town. I remember one time taking a friend out and stopping as we came around the curve of an open road, telling him to grab a hold of something and nailing the pedal – feeling the back end kick as it jumped forward. Nothing felt more freeing than being behind the wheel of that car.
When my brother turned 16, dad gifted him the keys, and on his last day of high school he burned around the corner leaving tire tracks behind him. It was the greatest gift dad ever gave him, passing down to his son what he loved most.
For mom, its where they started so many memorable trips, and maybe where they first partly fell in love. He’d drive to her side of town just to take her to lunch, and she always knew he was coming when she heard that familiar rumble pouring out from under the hood as it grew louder from down the street.
Even in his last months, dad would spend hours researching from his recliner – looking at toolkits and tracking down parts so he could restore it. He wanted to breathe new life into it, and for a long time I think that kept him going – the promise of something to finish, and enjoy.
You could say we all really love that car.
But it sat in the garage ever since dad’s funeral. We parked it outside of the church where we honored his life last year, and my uncles – his brothers – drove it to the luncheon, coming in hot with the engine steaming and dad’s ashes seated beside them like he would have wanted. One last ride. But none of us had the heart to touch it since. And it was up to my brother, it was his car now.
But a few weekends ago, he dug her out. He uncovered it and washed it in the driveway. And then, we all drove it.
There’s an endless amount of firsts after you lose someone. Most – honestly – are awful, but once in a while it feels like coming home to a piece of yourself and the life before that you thought was lost. It’s therapeutic in an unexpected way, flirting with nostalgia and slipping into the memory of happier times.
Getting in the driver’s seat, I could feel the soft leather hug my skin. It smelled the same as I can remember, and when I turned the key the roar of its engine took me back. Driving it by the coastline, and feeling it lurch forward with the light touch of the gas pedal made my heart widen with gratitude. I was grinning like a child. It’s as if I could feel the decades of joy my dad felt with his hands at that same wheel. And I haven’t felt as close to dad in a long time than I did sitting there.
It’s a bridge through time, that little blue car. And while I made laps through the neighborhood streets, the thick blanket of clouds rolled back – and the sun came out. I’d like to think that dad was happy to see it back on the road. Happy to see his kids delighting in what he loved himself.
Standing there, looking at it under the sun in the driveway, mom, my brother and I stood in silence for a while, wiping away tears. Mom broke the silence turning to him asking “how did it feel?” And saying what dad surely knew all along, my brother started to smile, “It’s hard to be upset in that car.”
And it’s true. It felt so damn good.
A REKD GIRL 