ShawneeDispatch.com

A certain emptiness exists in our home now. What was once there is no longer. Like a pet passing on, the family car is gone.

This happened to us recently when our car, a 2002 Ford Escape, became another statistic to an auto accident. In a four-car pileup. Not that this car was anything special or valuable. It was only special to us. Its value was immeasurable.

The car belonged to my wife. She bought it in our early days of dating. It was her first new car on her own. I only inherited it through marriage. But like an unfamiliar cat or dog that eventually warmed up to me, I got to know it as well.

Our cars become another member of our extended families. So much of our time is spent in our vehicles. Our city has no mass transportation system to speak of. Hardly a day passes by without being in our cars, in traffic somewhere. We get to know every little nuance of our cars. We come to know the car just like the backs of our hands. This was the fourth car that my wife has owned in her lifetime. I had owned 12.

All the little extra things we have done for our cars. All the extra money we have put in them. New tires; floor mats; fresh fuel each week; an oil and filter change every now and then. On the weekends, maybe a wash and vacuum, then a ride out into the countryside.

Sometimes, we would have to take the day off to take the car to Doctor Mechanic. We would be worried about the outcome. Maybe it would only be something simple, something painless. Perhaps just a spark plug or a new fuel filter. Maybe a little wheel balancing. We would be in the waiting room. Drinking bad coffee. The doctor would come in and say something like, "It's the rotor." Or "The CV boots are shot." Serious stuff. Expensive stuff. But we would nod in confused agreement and write the check in full amount.

It became a familiar face in the garage. I would always lock up the house at night, making sure all doors were shut tight. Looking in the garage, there would sit the blue SUV, its headlights like eyes, looking back at me. Assuring me that everything is all right in the garage. Still there.

But life is fleeting and goes by in the blink of an eye sometimes. It was in that blink of a moment - a flash and a crash - when someone sideswiped my wife as she drove the car last week on the highway. Right rear quarter area first, pushing the car and the left-front quarter area into the concrete barrier. Another crash. All momentum continues. Back into another car. Metal crunches. Tires flattened. Dust flies. All momentum subsides. An eerie silence. Traffic stops. In all, four cars were involved. Luckily, no one was hurt. Now, four broken cars are on that stretch of roadway, blocking two lanes of Interstate-435 for the next hour. The accident is investigated. Statements are taken. Tow trucks come and everyone leaves. Traffic continues as before.

Our car is taken to a body shop near our home. We have to wait the weekend before an estimate can be made on the damage. So we get a rental car to supplement our driving needs. We drive the rental home and park it in the garage. It looks so foreign there, like a stranger in our home. We assure ourselves this is only temporary.

But it is not. On Monday, we get the word every car owner dreads.

Totaled.

Apparently the cost of repair exceeded the 75 percent threshold allowed by the insurance company to cover the repair. Not by much, though. The engine was still good. We just had everything checked before for our recent Florida trip.

Now it sits in the back of the body shop. Unattended. Nobody looking over it or caring for it. Life at the body shop has turned to other cars in need. We go to retrieve our personal things. Important papers, maps, a golf umbrella and other items usually left in cars. I take a picture of my wife standing next to the car. She mocks the expression the car seems to give us. The broken fog lamp hanging under the bumper and flat tire gives the old car a limp look. It looks sad. We leave but I turn to give one last look to those headlamp eyes.

Miles and miles of roadway had passed underneath these wheels. So many places we shared with our car. So many states we shared together. We knew every stain on the seats. We made those stains - well, the boys mostly.

But all things must pass.