March 25

We got the (mostly)bitter(but a little)sweet news this morning that the insurance company had decided to deem our minivan a total loss. (The sweet part is that they're giving us significantly more than we expected, so there's that.) I went over to the auto body shop where we took it after the accident to start the process of collecting our things from the interior before we sign it over later this week. I felt a wave of sadness as I stood in front of the old girl and looked at her crumpled front, and another wave when I walked around back and got another gander at the very crumpled back end. But the biggest wave of all hit me as I opened the door to start removing those personal items: Sunscreen, hand sanitizer, a jacket, containers of gum, goggles and passports from the swim lesson days, handfuls of loose change, a CD that I thought I'd lost ages ago. And a sprinkling of things that reminded me so strongly of Logan that I had to stop and sit for a few moments to collect myself -- Lightning McQueen and Mater in the center console, a Cars pencil in the backseat, and a half-used sheet of stickers on the floor. And then there was this in the driver's side door handle:

I bought it a few years ago at a Hallmark store. It was part of a keychain I carried with me that somehow came apart one day. I remember finding it in my seat --feeling thankful that it hadn't gotten lost-- and slipping it into the door handle for safe keeping. Then I'd see it there periodically when I got in and out of the car, and it always made me smile.

I tucked it away in a safe place in the big plastic bin I had with me, and climbed into the back seat to pull items from the cargo area (which didn't work particulary well since the damage is pretty significant and I have short arms). I stopped again as a memory of the day when we test drove the car washed over me. Logan was three years old at the time, and our precocious, car-loving kiddo sat in the seat upon which my knee rested and peppered the very-surprised car salesman with a slew of rapid-fire (and surprisingly intelligent) questions about the car's mileage and special features. I sat still for a moment and smiled at the memory before I finished my task, climbed back over the seat, and headed back home with my mostly filled box.

The hardest thing about saying goodbye to this car is that we are, for the second time in three months, saying goodbye to something tangible that holds distinct memories of our Sunshine. I can remember him in that car, just like I can remember him riding in the little red car (the recently-retired commuter). It's strange and a little painful to know that he'll never ride in any of the cars we have from here on out, and I still haven't really figured out how to deal with those feelings.

But in spite of the sadness, I'm thankful for the memories I had today while I packed up our things, and for the ones that will continue to come to me in the future, even if they are a bit bittersweet. Life is, after all, about feeling more than just the good things. And feeling the not-as-good things makes the truly good ones feel even better.