When Do Cars Become Our Friends?

What is the moment when cars become our friends?

Maybe it is the first time you get behind the wheel, when you take it for a spin while it still has the new car smell.

Maybe it is when it gets its first ding or dent and you realize it was never going to stay perfect and now you can exhale a small sigh of relief knowing the first cut is the deepest.

Maybe it is when the carseats are installed in the backseat and the children know to request songs from their playlist, which includes a smattering from VeggieTales, Simon & Garfunkel, and Journey.

Maybe it was when my parents gave it to Tuck, the newly licensed driver, and he drove it to football games and shifts at ChickFilA and on adventures I am slowly learning about now that the boys are past the statute of limitations for Mom Punishments.

Maybe it was when Tuck bequeathed it to Tyler, and Tyler gave it a new name: Lazarus.  Because this car just wouldn’t die.  (Lazarus was a girl, he insisted, because there was already a famous guy named Lazarus, and this girl deserved her own space among the fame of the resurrected.)

Maybe it was when I learned yesterday that the air bags of the car are the same color as a BandAid.

The other driver had come barreling into our neighborhood like they were driving through the rainbow mall in MarioKart, like taking a corner on two wheels only results in the fake consequences of a fresh screen and starting the race at the beginning.

Maybe it was when the officer said, “This car saved his life today.”

I don’t know when the moment happens, but there definitely comes a moment when a car is more than a tin can, when it has become part of the scenery of life, the setting for the story.

Because when the tow truck is taking the car away, it’s one of the saddest goodbyes.

I said, “Tyler, be present as they tow it away.  It’s more monumental than you think.”  And it was.

Thank you, Lazarus.  I’m not sure when it happened, but you became part of the family.
Thank you for the many miles.