To my car, during a pandemic: A Valentine's letter

You know, Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, and I’ve been thinking a lot about you. I’ve been reflecting on all the time we’ve spent together over the last year. I wanted to thank you for being there for me. I wanted to tell you I love you. 

 

Recently, someone asked me what I’m doing to take care of myself these days. It took me a minute, but then something came to mind. 

 

“I run a lot errands,” I replied. 

 

What I didn’t tell them is that WE run a lot of errands. You and me. 

 

You, a Dodge SUV. 

 

Me, a mom who is very tired a lot of the time. 

 

On the outside, you’re nothing to write home about. We chose you because I was 9 months pregnant, our current SUV had bitten the dust, and my husband and I are powerless against pushy car salesmen. You are orange. We never wanted an orange car. Now you are orange and dented because I am also bad at backing out of garages. 

 

On the outside, meh. 

 

But on the inside, oh boy. If one measured the worth of a car by the amount of junk on its floors, you’d be a Range Rover. 

 

On the inside, you are priceless. 

 

Because in a year where our respective worlds have been distilled and condensed, where home and school and work and daycare have all blended together into one claustrophobic sociological experiment, you’ve given me a place to go. And you and me? We’ve gone everywhere. 

 

We’ve gone to Target, to pick up a drive-up order. 

 

To the grocery store, to pick up a drive-up order. 

 

To assorted drive-throughs. 

 

To Target again. 

 

You are the reason I look forward to the drive home from preschool drop-off like I used to anticipate parties and Friday nights. We can listen to podcasts, or to that old Neko Case CD I found in the glove compartment, or to the Audiobook I’ve been chipping away at for two months, a distracted ice harvester with a dull spoon. 

 

We can share a cup of coffee. Look! The drive-through line practically wraps around the block! Perfect. I’ll drink most of it, but I'll accidentally spill some on the passenger seat just for you. 

 

We can sit in silence. Even if my toddler is in the back, he is constrained and not flushing the toilet over and over, and that is so nice. 

 

We can enjoy the peaceful stillness of the driveway for an extra 5 or 19 minutes before I have to go back inside. 

 

We can just be. 

 

Yesterday morning, we sat together in the Walgreens parking lot as I quickly assembled the 16 Frozen Valentine’s I’d forgotten to send to school with my daughter. Her party started at 10 a.m. It was 9:55. At 6 minutes fast, your clock reminded me that things could be worse. It could be 10:01. Thank you for that. 

 

Thank you for being the orange metaphor I’ve needed over the past 11 months – the quiet I’ve craved. The solitude that resets my parental patience clock back to zero, even if it’s just for a little bit. 

 

I don’t know what I’d do without you. 

 

So, what do you say? Let’s go for a drive. I have a Target order waiting, and it’s a Saturday, so we’ll probably have to wait in the parking lot for a really long time.   

 

And it will be beautiful.