“The whole house seemed to exhale a melancholy breath of emptiness” ~~ Michael Chabon
Zach,
Since we moved into this house last year, we joked about our two white Pontiacs sitting in the driveway. It was almost our landmark when giving people directions to the house; “Just look for the house with two white cars.” Since you’ve been gone, your car has continued to sit there. Every day I would pull in and it would look like someone was already home, like you were already there. It gave me a sense of security, of comfort, and some peace of mind that it would look like someone was home with me. Like I wasn’t utterly and tragically alone.
Well, the car sat much too long. Sat in that driveway collecting dust for over a year now. It wouldn’t crank, wouldn’t turn on, and wouldn’t get moving. But we continued to let it sit there because there wasn’t really anything to be done to it. Until this weekend.
Your parents came down on Friday and stayed until Saturday evening with me. They had a banquet to go to and then we spent the rest of the weekend doing some things around town. It was so nice to have them here and to have the company especially since I have been so sick. But when they left on Saturday, they took your car with them. Your dad got a new battery so it would finally crank but needs new tires and a few other repairs so they took it back to Eastman with them. I walked them out, we hugged goodbye, and I watched them drive off down the street. Then the tears came.
I sat and sobbed on my front porch for about 30 minutes before I could drag myself back into the house and continue crying there. I was overcome with how harshly empty the driveway looked without your car there. It screamed at me that you were gone. A visible reminder of no one being home. The car may not have been in working condition, but I guess it symbolized a small shred of our life. Now that it is gone? That is a cut that goes deep.
Zach, why am I so attached to a car that wasn’t even working or being driven or even really needed? No, my car isn’t in the greatest shape but I wasn’t driving your car. I didn’t need it. So why am I so devastated over how empty my driveway looks? I guess it’s because the driveway is now as empty as the house, as my heart, and as my soul. Just empty.
Words To Heal the Pain 
I’m so sorry….
So strange how the simplest things can re-break a heart…I have experienced this in many ways since my husband died. I have a 1963 Lincoln that was his and still sits in my driveway…not as brave as you.
I have fallen down on the job of replying recently or even writing in general, but thank you for sharing your own “car story”. Gives me such comfort to know there are other people attached to these things just like I am.
I blew the engine in my car about a year and a half after my mom died. I borrowed my mom’s car to drive until I got another car. I am still driving it. It’s a part of her. It’s my mom’s car and always will be. I’m surprised my dad parted with it, but he knows it’s with me. I’m sorry you had to part with Zach’s car. We hold on to things of those we’ve lost and loved deeply. Things that help make the hurt a little less, our world seem a little less empty. I’ve lost/misplaced the purple pancreatic cancer band I’ve worn for nearly the past 4 years several times now. Each time I’ve gone into a complete panic until I’ve found it, and fortunately each time I’ve found it. I’ve even blogged about this band (http://peace4me521.wordpress.com/2012/09/07/purple-wristband/), it means that much to me. I’m sorry you’re feeling empty. I wish there was something I could say that could help you to fill the emptiness, although I know from experience there isn’t. Take care. I hope you’re feeling better.
Kathy, I apologize for my slow response but I haven’t had much time to write recently. Thank you as always for sharing your own story with me. It does make our world just a little bit less empty when we cling on to the things that give us even the slightest amount of comfort.
Sometimes a car isn’t just a car. My husband just loved his truck. Seeing that truck, his colleagues knew Jim was at work, in his crazy colorful ties, putting out fires (figuratively), seeing patients, joking, making plans. It was also the sign: “Dad’s home!” We’d know he was there when we saw his bright front lights sit for a moment, facing the house, while we knew he was listening to the end of one of his vast library of favorite songs. Neither one of us even wanted me to drive it, and the first time I did was because I had to: I had to forge through a blizzard to get him to the emergency room, and back and forth between the hospital and home for the ensuing weeks before he died. After he died, two of my older kids had to use the truck, and it was haunted for all of us: one child was stricken to find his workout bag still there. I was stricken when I found inside his car that he’d bought birdseed to feed “his” birds even when he himself could no longer eat. We all were stricken when we saw the bright lights coming home and in the same second thought, “He’s home! No, he’ll never be driving home again.” Of course it’s not only the car, but the things you most strongly associate with him–a home, a car–and with ordinary everyday life with him are uniquely painful reminders of the time you”ve been robbed of with him. I am so very sorry. It hasn’t been much longer for me than for you, but possibly long enough that I can think a little more of the time and love we had and less of the time we also should have had together.
Stephanie, thank you for sharing this with me. I could so vividly imagine his truck while reading this and giving me comfort in your words. So many things after we lose them take our breaths away and are like a stab to the heart all over again; workout bags, bird seed, etc. I completely understand about the lights pulling in the driveway because my heart skips a beat every time I hear a car door shut thinking it is him.