HOLDING ON. LETTING GO.
Today, we bought a new car. For me. The last time I bought a car was 2007. That was the perfect car: six cylinders, six speed, manual transmission, sunroof, two-door. I loved that car. I still love that car, even if it’s not mine anymore. In fact, I am consumed with buyer’s and seller’s remorse, even though my new car is beautiful and will last me twenty more years. Besides, it was just time. The ceiling fabric was starting to peel off, one of the front tires kept coming loose from the rim, occasionally the battery would just die on me, rust and dents had marred the finish; she was looking her age.
But I had cred driving that car. That I still drove a manual in these times of automatics was cool—even if my gas mileage was crap. And I impressed all the people I was so desperate to impress: college-aged boys, tire salesmen, oil-change service people, the dudes hanging around the Honda showroom. Now, I have no cred.
Dad taught me to drive on a manual. I practiced backing up our long gravel driveway in a manual transmission Volvo from the 70s. Remember those boxes? Uncool is next to their picture in the Google dictionary. He told me he would take me for my driver’s test when I could start in third gear from a full stop at the top of a steep hill near our house (which I could do. Just sayin’). When we bought my husband’s last standard transmission vehicle and were out for the test drive, the salesman suddenly asked, “Did you just shift from first into third?”
Too much pride, methinks.
The manual transmission connects deeply to my father. That’s the core of the loss here, the reason for the overwhelming buyer’s remorse, the sick pit in the middle of my stomach when I think about what I’ve given up.
Dad worked for his uncle’s car dealership as a young man; he might have even taken it over if he hadn’t joined the Navy. In the Navy, he flew jets off carriers; then he became a commercial pilot. When we lost him six years ago, he was suffering from some dementia. He knew us but he couldn’t do math, tell time, manage complex tasks. Somehow, driving a stick was partly about keeping him with me, about expressing some joyful part of myself that he and I shared.
I know the Buddhists say that we create our own suffering by getting attached. I suppose a more peaceful way of living would be not to get attached to things or to people, to be able to just let go. I’m not good at that. Most people I know aren’t good at that. Objects become symbols through their association with us and others; the car with Dad, a small oak chest with my grandfather who lovingly refinished it; several pieces of jewelry with various aunts. The objects themselves don’t make me who I am, but they are representations of parts of me that I value. I imagine you have your own list.
Of course the memory is there—and the pictures I took today in the rain as they drove my car away—and I’ve ended up with a new beautiful car that I will enjoy driving. Lucky me. Lucky all of us who are so privileged to be heading into the new year with our hopes, deep connections, and love alive when so many are homeless and struggling, living in the midst of war and its many deprivations, afraid of deportation or imprisonment, hurting from depression or anxiety or fear. May the rage and hate in our culture be turned this year toward love and peace through our work and attention. Happy New Year—and as always, thanks for reading.
I always love hearing from you!
EVENTS:
Just in case you want to get it into your calendar now, the book release party for my latest book of poems, The Sky Weeps with Us, will be Sunday, February 22, 2026 at the Norwalk Public Library. It will be hosted by the Norwalk Poet Laureate, Katherine E. Schneider, and I’ll get to share the spotlight with the previous poet laurate, Bill Hayden, and his anthology of local writers. Time TBD.
On March 28, The Sparkle Bookstore in Sparkill, NY (just across the bridge) will host a book party for my new book. We’ll begin the day with a workshop on the prose poem, and then celebrate. More info will be forthcoming.
The Buddhists also say to feel the full range of human emotion, which means love and loss. If a dog can carry the rag of a once stuffed toy with utter devotion, we can feel the same about a car. You wrote a beautiful tribute to a long life shared that carried you places and connected to many people along the way. A tow guy told us our Isuzu Trooper would be “reinCARnated.” We kept the name plate. Attachment, yes!
Such a rite of passage-so many memories of learning stick and teaching. Brenda and I were in the middle of somebody's lawn as I tried to teach her reverse, and she just kept inching forward, both of us laughing uncontrollably! I gave up my precious Miata last year, so relatable! From one life to the next.