Goodbye Dear Friend

Back in 2009, my trusty purple Jeep Cherokee started breaking down. I couldn't afford to keep getting it fixed, so I traded it in for a newer Jeep Liberty. The minute I pulled out of the dealership, my heart sank. I felt like I was abandoning an old friend, a part of me. I looked in the rear view mirror and I swear I saw tear raining down on the windshield of the little purple dot shrinking on the horizon. I grieved for months.

Unfortunately, I had to drive by the dealer on a regular basis, and there in the lot was my Jeep. Rejected. Orphaned. Abandoned. More tears.

It took awhile, but I fell in love with the Liberty. True I now had to stand on my tippy toes to get a canoe on top of her, she made up for being tall with her cool steering wheel and awesome look. We went to the UP countless times, hauling canoes and push poles on our way to go ricing.

This summer, the nickel and dime repairs started. The last big one, over $1000, was in mid-summer I think. I looked at some newer models, but out of the corner of my eye, my silver Liberty sat there like an abandoned puppy. I opened her door and drove away.

Today, I got some bad news. Another potential repair that was going to cost me $1200. I just don't have it. Tears welled up in my eyes. I knew I was going to have to put her down.

I have driven Jeeps for 20 years or more. Every new model makes me cringe, they just keep getting farther and farther away from the utilitarian vehicle I once loved. Hell, those things that are supposed to be roof racks wouldn't even hold up my coat collection. Even the Wrangler, now the trendy ride for those who can't afford a Hummer, can cost over $40,000. I use my Jeeps for what they were intended once upon a time. In the field. In the woods. In the mountains. Carrying kayaks and canoes.

So I test drove some Patriots and found one that worked for me, ignoring the fact the name of this vehicle always reminds me G.W. Bush. It is shorter than my Liberty so no more tippy toes when I load a boat.

I tried not to look out of the window from my seat at the dealer's during the grueling five hour process of paperwork and signatures. I did not want to look at my Liberty. I tried not to remember our good times. I only ruminated on the cost of the repairs, trying to ease my guilt. But when I unloaded my stuff from her nooks and crannies, I couldn't block the sadness. I love my Liberty. I hate that I can't afford to repair her. I kissed her goodbye and made the salesperson promise to put her somewhere on the lot that I wouldn't see her when I drove by.

Its funny what you think of as you sit and wait and wait and wait to buy a car. I had a profound realization involving old age and trail ratings.

I have owned several Cherokees, a Wrangler, and the Liberty. All of them were trail rated.

The Patriot is not. I got heated seats and a sun roof. And Sirius radio. The salesperson said, "well it is all-terrain, you could look at it that way".

Then it hit me.

I am no longer trail rated either.

Touch

The hardest thing about being alone
is not the silence at the end of a day
or the stillness of the morning
It is the absence of touch.

It must be hard to imagine for you
with lovers
husbands and wives
girlfriends and boyfriends
babies and kids.

Pretend you have a highly infectious disease
fatal to all who touch you
and wait.
And wait.
And wait.

You will become hungry.
Thirsty.
Your body will start to react
in ways we have no language for.
You will cheat when no one is looking
and buy massages from strangers.

Just to feel alive.

Without touch, we shrivel and die.
It somehow connects us with something unseen.
I don't know what that is.
But it makes me feel good.
Loved.
Wanted.
Connected.
Accepted.
OK.

To touch or be touched.
That is the question.
To touch is an act of giving.
To be touched is an act of receiving.
It is the latter that is endangered
when one is single and alone.