Eulogy for the Corolla by Lázaro Gutiérrez

To my 2009 Toyota Corolla,

Time flies, doesn’t it? You are 13 years young, almost 200,000 miles on your bones and still kicking like the very first day my hands shifted your speeds aggressively; the hubris of an adolescent that knew nothing and thought he knew it all. You were there for me on every drive to high school since junior year. Then after school you took me to work at the McDonalds miles from where we lived. You took me and my mother to college orientation and waited patiently outside as I translated the loan information to her in Spanish. And when I graduated high school, you embarked with me to my new job and then drove me for four years back and forth while I was in college. 

You watched me find her, you kept us hidden in the nights when we became one in your backseat. You took us on endless adventures and random trips for food in nearby cities. You drove us to every check up when she became pregnant. You drove us to the hospital the night our son was born, you drove us to every one of his pediatric appointments. You drove us on the search for our first home. And most recently, you took us to our first big family vacation to Legoland. Months later you helped us take our son to his first day of kindergarten. And you rode for months into the year until the very day that the young inexperienced driver so recklessly slammed his Honda into you—a total loss determined by the insurance. 

An act of negligence took you out. A stupid boy who I didn’t speak to during the event because the rage had me trembling. I hugged Gabriel, he didn’t understand what was happening or why I was shaking and pale. I asked him if he was ok as the culprit treated the situation as if it were just a game—his mother laughing with one of the cops as though everything was just fine. But things were not fine at all. The week before my job laid me off, now this. I wasn’t just angry at the boy, I was angry at life. How dare she involve my son in this? The one I am meant to protect saw me fail.

At the moment of impact I felt your heart collapse as your lungs made way for the collision and took the pain from me. I watched you, smoking out your last minutes, the smell of burned tires and the mark of your wounds on the concrete. Your broken eyes splattered over the asphalt. But you kept us safe…you kept him safe. Sometimes it was my fault; I’ll admit. But this time it wasn’t and this time it wasn’t fixable. Remember when I scratched your door leaving the Trader Joe’s parking lot? I pretended I didn’t see what was happening only to have the cops show up at the house later. I acted like I didn’t know what had happened and well…things didn’t turn out as expected. I guess the karma came in the form of mismatched color on your doors and body. 

Remember when my cousin talked me into getting you modernized? We painted your inside black for some reason, you rejected and began to peel soon after. I eventually ripped off the blue lights my cousin added at the bottom, they made you look foolish if anything. I tried changing you, I tried making you something you were not. You were just a base model with basic things and you reminded me constantly that the only job you had was getting us to and from as safe as you could, that your job was not to be a sexy sports-car or a fancy one at that. You reminded me that I at least didn’t have to pay you off every month. That you were not a burden, that you only needed basic maintenance and good tires, and a good wash, you asked me to keep you clean. And that to me was enough, I didn't need you to be more than what you were.

After the accident I ran out and rushed to take Gabe out of his car seat; I was afraid you would burst in flames. I was trembling—my face was green. Anxiety-ridden and with cold hands I hugged him and only remember asking over and over if he was ok. I knew too that it was your last day, that there was no coming back. I watched as the tow truck harnessed you and dragged your weight onto her back. 

In the afternoon I paid you a visit at the tow yard. I searched for you and found you in the back, hurting from your wounds but still you looked resilient. I emptied your insides. Old CDs, a collection of poetry you kept in your glove compartment, an old bottle of Cuban cologne my grandmother gifted me a few years before her passing. And, other memorabilia you kept which I hadn't seen in years. I said goodbye…knowing that I’d never see you again. They’ll take you away to be auctioned, they’ll sell your parts at a junkyard like organs raffled. Your parts functioning in other cars. You will remain alive in other vehicles.

I guess that this is closure, this is the ending of a chapter I did not see coming. I will remember you, your bronze skin, or was it beige? I never quite knew your exact color. Your manual windows which I struggled to quickly roll down like an angry old man in a fit of rage when a driver was being stupid. 

I will remember you driving me, driving us, cruising, revving that engine of yours through different cities. How many exactly? 

I will remember how hard you worked for us. You may not have been the prettiest to look at or the easiest to work with or the most comfortable -  in fact you were tight and compressed. You were simple, old-fashioned in the best way. A young body; an old soul. You came after the Ford was struck by the tree and gone forever, and you served for 13 years, for 13 years you gave your all. A simple goodbye is not enough, but this will last forever like you would have, had it not been for the careless actions of that kid.

So this is it isn’t it? Thirteen years of memories reduced to nothing in mere seconds. Almost head on at the intersection. They said we were lucky. And here I am at 3 o’clock in the morning pouring my heart out over an inanimate object. But weren’t you alive and witnessing? The fuel surely breathed life into you, didn't it? Your voice—the sound of whatever we listened to. Not robot, not human, half time machine, half home, manipulator of hours, you were the vessel that took us to every destination we conjured up from a Google review. But the memories they helped create stay as reminders of the years we stayed together.    

Whatever you are crushed and recycled into will recycle to the ones that created you. You will keep on giving, and your gifts will bring purpose to everyone around you.