Probably spent months of my life in this seat.
We've been together eleven years, you and I. You were sitting outside the sliding glass doors of the hospital when they wheeled me out with baby #3. And baby #4. (It was baby #2 that made us realize how much we needed you.) You held carseats and booster seats and little bottoms and carried us all over town- to church and to school; to the store and the bank; to the park and the movies. You rushed us to the ER in the middle of the night more than once; you took us 14 hours each way to Orlando, Florida three times. You took us to the apple orchard in September, the pumpkin patch every October, to Thanksgiving dinners all over the state of Virginia in November, and you hauled our Christmas tree home on your roof in December.
Always quietly in the background of photos, never the star.
And it showed. You were crumby and stained. You had random scraps of paper, melted crayons, cracker bits, and broken pencils stuffed down into every crevice. Your armrests were worn, your windows were never free of smudges from tiny fingers, and there was something sticky in the front cup holder that wouldn't come out no matter how hard I scrubbed (which, to be honest, wasn't that hard).
You were one of the oldest cars in nearly every parking lot- but it was because you didn't quit. You never once left me stranded with a car full of groceries, never once conked out on a back road in the middle of the night. Every chilly school morning- even on the coldest ones- you started up without complaint and got us where we needed to go. For eleven years.
Even on that fateful day a week ago, when a distracted driver smashed into the back of us, you took the hit, letting your crumple zone absorb the impact, and your safety belt hold me tight so I was able to walk away with only a sore neck. Even on that last day, you took care of me. You took care of our family, just like you always have.
The view of an icy road through the windshield.
People might think it's silly for me to talk to you like this, but when you've been with a car for as long as I've been with you, when you've been through as much as we have, the words "total loss" from an insurance adjuster feel like a harder hit than the one that crumpled you.
As usual, always in the background.
When the guy at the shop opened the chain-link gate to the lot where the damaged cars sat, so I could get the rest of our belongings out of you, it was hard to see you resting in the back corner, all marked up like a patient who was going to have surgery but didn't quite make it to the operating room. So when I opened your doors for the last time, when I tossed out one more stale pretzel, I said thank you. Thank you for being there for us. Thank you for getting us where we needed to go, for being the most reliable car I've ever owned, and for protecting me that one last time.
You served us well, little minivan, and after eleven years together, you will be missed.
The view of a Washington, D.C. street out the back window.