And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

The couple is young, with rosy, supple cheeks and wide grins. Happy. In love. The woman, brown hair and warm eyes, is beginning to show, and the glow of an expecting couple surrounds them.

His last owner had been happy, too.

They need a bigger car for the little one on the way, they tell the salesperson, who smiles and congratulates them. The three go inside to discuss terms, and then the couple returns with keys.

The first drive home shows that they are also gentle, as happy people often are. Brakes, pedals, wheel, seats, doors—all treated kindly and not unnecessarily forcefully. He appreciates it: he isn’t as young as he once was, which is why they had gotten a discount at the dealership.

But if they continue to treat him so gently, he will last some years more.

The baby comes in a rush of nerves and excitement, man and woman piling in and hurrying to the hospital, then disappearing into the white building for hours and days, and then coming back at last with a small bundle, tucked into the crook of the new mother’s arm.

She sleeps through their first meeting, but he doesn't mind. In fact, his favorite thing becomes circling through the neighborhood until her big eyes flutter shut and her breaths even out. He always makes sure to wish her sweet dreams as they pull as softly as they can back into the driveway and then get out and go into the house.

Soon she begins to crawl and walk and grow—so fast. The car seat is switched for a booster seat, and drives to preschool and then kindergarten and beyond become daily things.

He leans against her mother as they watch the girl run off to the school building with a wave every morning, and he waits in the carpool line for her return every afternoon.

Within a blink the booster seat is gone too, and lessons, extracurriculars, meetings with friends all begin. He learns her schedule and her friends’ names and faces; he celebrates her victories and mourns her losses.

Before he even knows it, she’s at the wheel. Her mother’s brown hair and warm eyes reflect in his rearview mirror, as well as freckles and tan skin and her father’s bright smile.

She’s so… big. She fills the driver’s seat, when before her legs would hang inches above the pedals. Now she steps on the pedals with echoes of the same kindness as her parents, and even though he doesn’t come out completely unscathed, he’s so happy for her when she earns her license.

She and her parents spend the day after the test giving him a thorough clean, digging up lost toys and school papers and other trinkets and laughing at the memories they bring to mind. He basks in the sun afterward, sparkling with the remnants of a wash, and looks forward to the next chapter of their lives.

He goes with her to college, driving through states they’ve never visited before, quiet countryside and windmill farms—he thinks of dandelion fluff and how it scatters into the wind.

I wish I could remember how to be happy.

He startles as the words jump unbidden into his mind, an old voice reverberating through him. Suddenly the scenery seems too desolate to focus on, so he turns his attention back to the girl, putting her months of singing lessons to use as she belts out songs with the radio. Her teeth flash as she laughs at her own out-of-tune voice, and something inside of him relaxes.

She’s happy, isn’t she? And that means it will all be okay.

College is a whirlwind of new experiences, clubs, jobs, friends, and places to drive. In the summers she goes on trips, takes on internships, and lives—freely. He’s with her every step of the way, even though he’s getting too old and even though there are better, newer cars out there.

He knows it’s selfish, but he’s glad she seems just as attached to him as he is to her.

But he isn’t built to last as long as he wants to. He can’t be with her for the rest of her life, even if he was witness to its initial stages. Even if he had watched her grow up. Even if he could still remember her as a 7-pound, 19-inch infant tucked into her mother’s arms.

Just once, he wants to see the middle section of someone’s life. He wants to see the adult years of her life. He wants to see what she would become and he wants to be proud of her no matter what and he wants to drive her to work every day and—

But the summer after graduation, he reaches his limit.

They’re driving back home to pick up some things for her new apartment in her new city where her new job is. He can feel from the beginning that this is his last drive, and he wonders if she can too because she seems even more gentle than usual.

It’s strange to be on the other side. He isn’t angry or upset or really anything but at peace. Yes, that’s it. He feels peaceful and content.

So when three quarters of the way into the drive his engine stalls, and the girl pulls off the highway into the grass, he doesn’t mind as much as he thought he might. He’s had several problems over the years, and they both know that this is the last time. Realistically, he could be repaired and keep running, but it’s time for her to move on.

It’s time for him to let go.

He had never really understood—and still didn’t, not completely—why his previous owner had done what they’d done, why they had left him behind and let go in all the ways a person can let go. There had been a life ahead of them, and they had thrown it away with such little fanfare.

But it hadn’t been their time. It’s his time right now. He has no regrets, except that he won’t be able to stay by his little girl’s side as long as he wants. And even then, at least he knows she’ll live a life he can be proud of.

That’s enough for him, he realizes as they sit and wait for her father to come pick her up and for the tow truck to take him away. Their twenty years together and this moment are enough for him.

It’s warm, here in the sun, with her in the driver’s seat.

He remembers, as he goes to be recycled and as he watches the girl and her father drive in the opposite direction, a winter’s day and a metal bridge, gray skies and the sound of a frigid river flowing by, the cold bite of a night spent alone and the splash of water far below—and he latches onto her warmth, lingering within him, instead.

He allows the warmth to bloom into new memories, being purchased by her parents, her arrival, her elementary and middle and high school days, her smile and her singing voice, and he knows that everything is going to be okay. Even though there had been days that weren’t happy ones, she was strong. And kind. And gentle.

Maybe his parts could be recycled into something she would see or use. Maybe he could belong to someone else just as happy and kind once again. Maybe he could prevent a tragedy the next time.

Or maybe he would simply cease to exist, reach that immortal plane where his first owner had gone and take them anywhere that would make them happy again.

He doesn’t know, but somehow he thinks that it will all work itself out. He’s done all he can, and now it’s time to pass the wheel over to someone else.