With the best of intentions, I purchased some re-usable grocery bags from the store a while back, to cut down on excess waste. Unfortunately, these bags only make it back to the store with me when I shop about 40% of the time, resulting in a stockpile of large paper bags under my sink anyway. While this annoys me, all the extra bags came in handy today when I was about to head out the door to go sign the title of my old Taurus over, and realized I would be needing to remove all of my belongings from the car.

I listened to music and enjoyed the smooth ride of my new, zippy little car all the way to the shop. It’s so nice to finally be driving something that doesn’t moan and groan and overheat every time I get in it. The last of those things is what finally did the Taurus in, and left it worth only the parts.

When I got there, the service man had me sign the title and handed me my old keys. “Here, “ he said, “let me know if you need any help. It’s over on the far side of the parking lot, next to the dumpster.” …Of course I thought.

As I starting walking across the lot with an armload of paper bags, I saw the old Green Machine sitting out there by itself. Everything about that car is familiar to me. The curve of the hood, the clunk when it unlocks, the snap of the door handle, the scent when I open the drivers side door. By the time I had the door open, I was surprised by a well of tears that seemed to come up from the deepest part of my gut and overcome me. Despite all of the trouble it has given me, it has been my most constant companion since I moved to Tennessee. Helping me move 4 times, taking me to and from school, on little road trips around the south, on drives to clear my head after an argument, to airports, new friend’s houses, and countless gigs. It has heard me mumble out strings of lyrics before they were a song, and some of my most intimate conversations. It knows things about me no one else knows, and has literally traveled the same road I’ve taken through the last five years. I know that five years is not long compared to some people’s relationships with their vehicles, but the last five years for me have been some of the most impactful years of my life.

I suddenly felt guilty for talking so badly about it every time it blew up on me and after it finally kicked the bucket. I felt guilty for being excited about my newer, prettier car and loving it so soon after the death of the Taurus. And mostly I felt guilty for being too broke, and having no desire, to try one last time to revive it as I’ve done so many times before. Settled in my tears, I went through five years of things that have traveled with the Taurus, throwing away the junk and filling the paper bags with the baggage I would be carrying forward with me in the new car.

As I pulled out of the dark lot, I had a melancholy weight on my chest. Some things last and some things don’t. Some of the things that are broken and beyond repair are the same things that feel the most comfortable. Some things are shiny and new enough to keep our attention, and some are most appreciated when we realize they are gone. Some things simply get you from point A to point B, and some become extensions of the experiences they help you travel through. If nothing else, my Taurus was definitely something.

In loving memory of my green Taurus, 1999-2009. It’s been real.