May 12, 2007
Originally published May 2, 2005
My pickup truck-driving days may be numbered. I assumed ownership of a 2001 Chevrolet Impala yesterday. The car has only 10,000 miles on it and still smells new on the inside. It's never been driven outside the state of Georgia. Hell, it's never been driven outside of Chatham and Effingham counties.
That was my mama's car. It's mine now.
I really don't need a truck anymore, now that I'm no longer hauling supplies for the mini-farm, and that car is a real cherry. My brother suggested that I have it, even though I offered to sell it and split the money with him. But this ain't about money.
When I drove the car home yesterday, I found one of mama's hats in the back seat. She acquired a good collection of ridiculous hats when she was made bald-headed by the chemo treatments before she died. I hung that hat on my living room wall, just as a reminder of the kind of woman my mama was.
Bejus, but I miss her.
I should be delighted with my new car, but somehow I feel dirty for taking it. I didn't want anything mama had. I wanted Mama. But there is a lot of other stuff in the house that she went through before she died and stuck post-it notes on, informing people about who she wanted to have the things. My name is on a lot of that stuff, but I don't have the heart to pick through it now.
Mama saw the end coming and did everything she could to get all of her shit in one sock. I wonder what she was thinking when she put those notes on all those things? Facing death herself, she still tried to keep from inconviencing anybody else.
That was my mama.
All content © Rob Smith