Tuesday they took my license plates, rather they took hers.

It was her first new car. Well, not her first new car, but her first new car. She’d driven a few older ones before she was married, and then got the station wagon. The “silver bullet” she called it, a grey Ford Taurus wagon. Then we got a Ford Aerostar—the stretch van. They were hers to drive, but this car, this car was hers.

She’d be behind the wheel, smile from ear to ear, as she pulled out of the driveway in that black car. She’d tell me how professional and sleek she felt, and how “hip” she was. “I look good in it don’t I?” she’d say. I’d wash it for her and you’d think I’d cleaned the whole house and made dinner for her. “Oh all the teachers will be so jealous when I pull up in my clean car on Monday. You just feel better in a clean car.”

The way she’d talk you’d think she was driving a BMW or “Beamer” as she’d call them. No, no it was an Accord, and not even a fancy one—cloth seats, no sun roof, it did have A/C she’d like to remind me. It didn’t matter that half of the state was driving one, this one was hers.

I feel like a steward. There to make sure the car stays in the family and not to be driven by someone else, not to be neglected. This weekend I put a new coat of wax on it, and as I scrubbed I could feel her just for a second, closer to me. I wash it often remembering her praise. Someday, hopefully not too soon, the car will be sold, or just stop running, but my memories of her in it won’t. It’ll always be hers. I’m just proud to still be driving it.

It’s beautiful. She was beautiful.