Dear Blue Bomber:
If you had asked me last week if I’d be writing this letter right now, I would have said you were crazy. But as we all know, life has a way of throwing us curve balls when we least expect it, so here we are.
There you are, above, in all your brilliant glory. You’ve been with us for nine whole years. You’ve become such an important part of our lives, and as the resident writer in our family, I feel that it’s my duty to give you a proper send off. It’s only fitting, really, and it’s the least I can do.
You came to us in 2006 — on my 25th birthday, to be exact. You were sleek and shiny and new; we all marveled at the promise you brought to our lives. Promises of new beginnings. Promise of new adventures. Promises of new memories. All these new things, not as a family of four, but as a family of three.
After all, you were the first car my mom bought after my father died. Granted, buying a new car had always been a partnership between my parents, but my father, being an engineer, naturally took the lead, asking the right questions, inspecting the car to a “T” and taking it for a proper test drive. So when it came to you, well, my mom was sort of in new territory. It would have been understandable for her to call upon one of my uncles, who would have been more than happy to offer advice and help her choose the perfect new set of wheels, but that’s not how my mom rolls (pun intended!). That’s most definitely never been her style. Instead, she took charge of the situation, and she amazed me so much. The way she was just so unafraid in the face of such an overwhelming decision? It was downright inspiring.
Little did we know that our first meeting would set the tone for our life together. We knew you were something special, which might be the reason we named you Blue Bomber. You were a fighter, a force of strength, and you needed a name that reflected that. You saw us through countless road trips to Alabama’s Gulf Coast and to Ohio; you were also there for us when we just wanted to tool around town on a random Sunday afternoon when a frozen custard craving had us in its death grip. You helped us get through medical crises, like that one time when Stella got her head stuck in a kitchen chair and she scratched me when I tried to free her — I had to go to the ER and take a round of antibiotics for that one. Or when my mom had her first colonoscopy. You don’t mind me talking about your colonoscopy on my blog, do you, Ms. Bear? Ahh, such good times.
Like I said, you represented a new era for us. Sure, we may have been a bit unsure about it all, but you helped us find our footing. You helped us realize that, yes, we can make it, that we can do it and that we’re on the right track. We needed that boost of confidence, so thank you for that.
As the years rolled on (again, pun intended…), so did you — literally! You may be older now, with a few more dents and scrapes, but then again, so are we. We’ve all been battered and bruised a bit by life and its many twists and turns along the way. But we keep going because, really, what other option do we have? We can let life crumple and overwhelm us or we can continue to fight the good fight. If you ask me, I’d much rather continue to fight.
We were all sad when you began to break down last week. We knew the time had come for us to part, and although there’s a new car (above) parked in our garage (welcome to the family, Captain Cobalt), let me be clear about one thing: Although we had to get a new car, you’ll always have prime parking in our hearts. Your parking space will never be replaced.
Goodbye, Blue Bomber. I’m sure you’ll be just as good and reliable to your next owners. Make sure you treat them right and show them just as much dedication as you showed us. The highway of life can be one scary road. Thanks for taking us on this wild ride with you! xoxo