The new owner will pick up my husband’s 1990 Toyota 4-Runner tomorrow. I was planning to just scratch it off the list, one more task complete, but the thought of never seeing or hearing or driving the stinky thing again has me more choked up than I would like to admit. (It didn’t start out stinky, but after 14 years of industrial jobs and two kids, the mixture of gravel and grime and happy meals would catch up with any vehicle.)
He said he was heading out to clean it up. I thought I’d give him time alone, you know, mano-a-machino, but as he walked by the window to the driveway, a giant sigh hit me. I eventually joined him as he sorted through the mixture of trash and treasures on the floor of the back seat and all our adventures bobbed to the surface one by one. The day he bought it turned into a night out with friends that ended in our first kiss…we took it camping, drove it to the beach on both coasts and logged countless hours sitting on the tailgate talking turkey. We drove it to the train station when we moved across country and shipped it full of our belongings. It has survived the endless array of parenting stages from one rear-facing baby seat in the middle to our current two booster arrangement that is close enough for slug bug and far enough for a “do not cross” line down the middle. It has literally been through everything with us and I will forever miss hearing the boys exclaim “Daddy’s home!!” when we hear the gears wind down as he rolls down the street and turns into our driveway. Tears have been shed and there are most likely more where those came from.
On a lighter note, I’m happy to report that in addition to one lunch box and a pair of dirty Mickey Mouse socks we found 27 Legos, finally freed the Sand Man action figure that was wedged under the front seat and recovered enough small, round black-and-white magnetic pieces to our travel-sized Othello game to play it on the plane.
Remembered you will be, yes. May the force be with you.