Kissing My Astro Goodbye

Yesterday, before leaving to drive our youngest of four sons to his first year of college, my husband told him, “Be sure to go through the van. We might not see it again.” Now, on this dark, early morning, another son, Peter, is about to drive our 20-year-old metallic green Chevy Astro from Lake Tahoe to Gonzaga University, over 800 miles.

Peter and I had packed the van the night before. Now a junior and his first year out of the dorms, he needed furniture, so in addition to the double bed we got a dresser in there. And three guitars, a piano keyboard, a ukulele, two sets of speakers, a PS4, a computer and a few useful things, like a mini-fridge, clothes, and a down comforter.

As the body of the van sank lower on its tires my concern over its age grew. It was clearly exhausted, having over 250,000 miles on it. I hoped a highway patrolman wouldn’t pull Peter over for the cracked windshield, whose original line had sprouted off-shoots so that now it resembled a map. My husband reassured me that it was fine to drive since the cracks were below the sight line. We never expected the van to be breathing at this point and had stopped throwing money into it beyond the minimum to get it through our youngest son’s 2-mile drive to high school.

Yesterday, I didn’t actually kiss the van goodbye, but we had a moment when I found in a seat pocket, a well-leafed Mad Libs book, the paper kind, where you fill in the blanks to create entertaining stories. Mad Libs was a staple on our road trips, ten years ago. Now, of course, nearly all their entertainment is electronic.

As I stand in the driveway wearing my robe, the van’s interior light is on as Peter runs up to fill his water bottle. I gaze at the mini-fridge in the passenger seat. When I told Peter to buckle it in, he laughed and gave me a mooooom look. But he did it. I had morbid thoughts, like if he crashed, he’d be killed by his stuff—surrounded and done in by things. My mind flits to the suicide this summer—a classmate of my youngest son—two months after high school graduation.

At 5:00 am, next to the loaded van, I embrace Peter. I’m happy to have this tall young man in my arms. Our hug lingers and I wonder about his state of mind. He’ll be okay, I tell myself, as he climbs in the driver’s seat and I head into the house.

I stand at the window and wrap my arms around myself to ward off the chill in the empty house. After a moment I see the van’s headlights illuminate the neighbor’s yard as the van creeps into the street. Peter brakes at the T in the road, and I hear the familiar squeal. I watch the red glow of the taillights, waiting to see if he’ll use the blinker. He does, and somehow I am reassured. The humble, paint-chipped Astro has always delivered.