Since we last spoke, Meredith got sealants on her molars, we went to The Magic House, I had lunch with a friend at The Blue Owl, I met up with the high school gang for our Third Thursday gathering, I got my hair cut, I baked biscotti, I finished a freelance project, I ate some Indian food, and I had to say goodbye to an old friend.
I bought Rocket the Nissan in September of 1999 after my Honda Civic died on the streets of Nashville, Tennessee. Barely one year old, Rocket had one owner before me—someone who wore artificial fingernails. (She left one in the side pocket of the driver door. I found it when I was digging for a map. It had skin on it. I’m still cringing.) Anyway, that car made it through our wedding, the move back to St. Louis, the switch from apartment to house, and the birth (and progression of car seats) of MC and Harp.
I won’t bore you with the details, but: Rocket started showing signs of death a few months back. When her “Service Engine Soon” light came on, we were told that it would cost more to fix her than what she was worth. (Stinking Death Panels! Bah!)
Last night we packed the family into Rocket and I slowly drove her (with dignity) to the dealer, where we traded her in for a Sonata. And as we drove off the lot in BluLu (Harper’s name for the new ride), I looked back at Rocket and said, “I bet Rocket is yelling, ‘Hey! Wait! Family?! Where are you going?! Hey! Don’t leave me here!!! Family?’” And then Rocket really DID seem sad. And then my eyes started watering. Stupid allergy season.