Today I washed my first car for the last time.

I’m selling it soon.

It felt almost intimate, rubbing it down, with my bare hands, and saying goodbye. I almost cried.

I don’t even drive it anymore. I don’t even like the idea of owning it.

But it’s hard to let things go.

Of course, things don’t mean anything.

But things attach themselves to memories.

And memories mean a lot.

When I got my first car it meant freedom.

Now, I am getting rid of it for a different kind of freedom. From debt. From guilt. From privilege.

Things change.

But we had a good ride.

Back in the day, we drove to and from senior year of high school together.

We listened to the same CDs over and over and over again — The Mars Volta, Beirut, Regina Spektor, Cake. Each one on repeat. For weeks.

We took friends and girlfriends out, sometimes riding around destinationless, just for the hell of it.

Once or twice we maxed out on Miami freeways far faster than we should have. Stupid. I’m sorry. It was before I’d grown into my prefrontal cortex and shed my invincibility complex.

One summer, we took a road trip to a farm in a valley in Tennessee where we found peace — at a time when it was really needed.

For years we went to New Orleans together. On numerous enchanting occasions.

We took spontaneous trips to the springs together.

We visited Sarasota together. Sweet Sarasota.

And on some nights when we just needed to get away, we drove south on 441 and stopped to observe the stars over the prairie.

…

With that, dear thing, I must say goodbye.

Thank you for the memories.