I just finished clearing out my car. Tomorrow I’m dropping it off at the dealership and picking up the 2004 model. My car has these cavernous storage pockets all over, each one stuffed full with the debris of three year’s solid use. The clear-out job necessitated the use of two strong shopping bags for possessions and one large bin bag for rubbish. The rubbish, as it turns out, was more significant than the possessions.

With each handful of car park tickets, till receipts and paper tissues there was a ticket, a flyer, a page of directions that reminded me of all the great times I’ve had over the last three years. This car and me have been road buddies over thirty thousand miles – sharing each experience, going the distance – literally.

I found bits of cardboard from all the boxes when we moved house across town and I couldn’t hire a van. Load after load, stacked high until four in the morning. I found bits of broken indicator lens from when that guy ran into me last year and all I could think of what how I was going to be able to drive the beloved to her appointment that afternoon. I found the parking permit from my previous job, which reminded me of friends I need to contact. I found the directions to the railway museum. The tickets for the show. The fire safety notes from the festival. The instructions for putting up the tent. The maps still folded open at the right page. The receipt from the tow truck.

This was my first car. Not the first I drove or even the first I had possession of, but the first I’d ever chosen, bought and owned all myself. My first car. When I remember all the places we’ve been, and all the cold sweats paying the maintenance bills (I begrudged the debt, but never the spend), I can’t help but feel sad. Sure, it’s the memories that really matter and not the heap of metal … but sometimes the things that trigger the memories can be important too.