We bought her used from my uncle when I was seven, the 91’ Toyota Previa. We had a new baby in our house, and my dad had to send the old Subaru to a farm. She was shiny and gold, with swivel seats and a sunroof. She had a CD player, but it would only play Zeppelin. Her horn was cheerful, like a wave hello, and she smelled like summer and gasoline. From Tofino to Spokane, we cruised the North West. Sometimes she got tired, but she would always get us home.
She was still gold, when I was thirteen, but her shine had been washed away. She smelled like dirt from my brothers muddy cleats, and my friends thought Zeppelin was lame. I made my dad drop me off a block from school, so the civics and neons wouldn’t see. He’d beep her horn and I’d scowl at her like I’d practiced. I got really good at it that year. After school, I met her two blocks away. I hated her, but she would always get me home.
I took her to a party, when I was sixteen. My parents had no idea. We stayed up late and listened to Zeppelin, while we pretended to like the taste of beer. I woke up in the morning to a call from my dad. Busted. I scrambled for excuses as I ran outside. She had two broken windows and a dent the size of Texas. I thought it was the last place I wanted to go, but she would always get me home.
My uncle died when I was eighteen. We held his hand until he let go. We left the hospital in a daze, and walked through parking lot to find her. We cried in her seats and listened to Zeppelin on low. She smelled like summer and gasoline. We knew it wouldn’t be the same, but she always got us home.
I’m 22, and “Van-Helsing” still gets us home. My friends and I took her on our annual trip to the Stampede last July.
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