I was driving home from work, sweating in my car when something caught my eye. A ’98 Saturn SC1. A black one. Just like the one I used to have. There aren’t many of those on the road anymore, so I immediately waxed nostalgic about my old one. This one was identical. Except for the American Racing rims, this car in front of me could pass for my car. Wait…could it be? I checked out the passenger door – there was the key mark all along its belly. I checked out the spoiler – the paint was peeling just like mine had. And finally, the front – the gray square where the black paint had chipped off was there. This was my old car!
I smiled and my heart raced a little, knowing it was still alive. The compassion I had for my first car is comparable to how people feel about their pets. The day I traded it in, the salesman told me the dealership would probably auction it off for parts. Something died inside of me that day, knowing this car would never drive again. But something saved this car, because here it was, all its parts save the nice rims. I looked at the new owner of it – he was a guy in his late twenties or early thirties. A boy around seven played in the passenger seat. I smiled at the two of them, while they turned left and I kept straight. Perhaps they only turned because of the creepy woman next to them smiling at them.
But if they did indeed live there, my old car ended up just two miles away from where it used to live. Reminded me of my first dog – Cinnamon. We had to get rid of him, much to my chagrin. He ended up two neighborhoods down with a new family. This family named him “Buddy” which is a terrible name. I used to walk by where I knew he lived, hoping he would smell me and jump the eight-foot fence somehow. He never did. But I could hear his bark and I knew he was still alive. Maybe not as happy as he was with me, maybe more so. Maybe he didn’t care either way, as long as he had a home. And knowing my old car has a new home, that gave me something to smile about.