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Unusually, I will not be doing my collage this week about what has been foremost in my mind, some important and satisfying work that I've been doing, but that's because I can't talk about it. It's related to the resistance, and I want to protect the people I'm working with. So: something else.
Last week's collage was about my new car. Now that I have that shiny new car in my garage, it was time to get rid of the old one. Poor old Lafayette, my 2000 Camry, got its rear end crunched last November. It was definitely time.
Yet, when it came right down to it, saying goodbye to my old car was unexpectedly difficult. That's because it was Rob's car. His last car. The last one that had his name on the title. We drove to all of his appointments at Mayo Clinic in that car. Eventually, he grew too ill to drive, and when we got rid of my car, I took over driving the Camry. And it served us well--it was a trustworthy, reliable car, and we were grateful to have it.
I took it into the body shop to get the estimate, and they told me that it could be just left there, and my insurance company would pick it up. I had already cleaned it out, but I was still taken by surprise by a wave of grief as I saw the shop worker drive it away. It was another link with Rob that was disappearing. How can I keep being taken by surprise this way?
I wish I had given the hood one last caress, that I had told Lafayette, "Well done, good and faithful servant. Thank you."
I wish I had time to say goodbye.
Isn't it strange that we can get so emotionally attached to inanimate objects?
Image description: Background: shadowy fog. Foreground: a Toyota Camry with a crunched back end. The license plate reads "Rob Car." A semi-transparent man's head [Rob's head] hovers above the car.
Object Permanence
Click on the links to see the 2026, 2025, 2024, 2023, 2022 and 2021 52 Card Project galleries.
Last week's collage was about my new car. Now that I have that shiny new car in my garage, it was time to get rid of the old one. Poor old Lafayette, my 2000 Camry, got its rear end crunched last November. It was definitely time.
Yet, when it came right down to it, saying goodbye to my old car was unexpectedly difficult. That's because it was Rob's car. His last car. The last one that had his name on the title. We drove to all of his appointments at Mayo Clinic in that car. Eventually, he grew too ill to drive, and when we got rid of my car, I took over driving the Camry. And it served us well--it was a trustworthy, reliable car, and we were grateful to have it.
I took it into the body shop to get the estimate, and they told me that it could be just left there, and my insurance company would pick it up. I had already cleaned it out, but I was still taken by surprise by a wave of grief as I saw the shop worker drive it away. It was another link with Rob that was disappearing. How can I keep being taken by surprise this way?
I wish I had given the hood one last caress, that I had told Lafayette, "Well done, good and faithful servant. Thank you."
I wish I had time to say goodbye.
Isn't it strange that we can get so emotionally attached to inanimate objects?
Image description: Background: shadowy fog. Foreground: a Toyota Camry with a crunched back end. The license plate reads "Rob Car." A semi-transparent man's head [Rob's head] hovers above the car.
Click on the links to see the 2026, 2025, 2024, 2023, 2022 and 2021 52 Card Project galleries.