It happens but once a year. Usually sometime in February, some years as
early as January, and, every now and then it waits until March. But It
happens every year. And it is a very special day.
It is a bright and sunny day. The roads are dry and dusty, save for a
glistening, glimmering rivulet of water streaming out from a rapidly
melting snowbank. It is warm, nearly 55 degrees acording to the
thermometer in the shade outside my kitchen. The hills are white with 4
day old snowfall.
There are errands to run, places to go. The post office calls with a
large package to be picked up. The office calls, a check to be picked
up, a picture to pick up.
I wander downstairs and out to the driveway. The Chevy awaits. A trusty,
dependable drive that always delivers. Opening the door, I'm struck by a
blast of hot air rushing out of the interior. I pause, reach in, grab
the garage door remote. I push the button. Nothing. Push again. Nothing.
Push the side of the button. The huge door rumbles to life. Success.
A light step takes me back into the house, up to my bedroom and back
down to the garage. I pause in the doorway, wisper a few words of hope
and encouragment, and begin today's adventure.
The cover peels back like glossamer. Beneath lies my trusted friend and
companion of over 14 years. I've walked past her uncountable times in
the last few months with nothing but a touch of my favourite curves
through the nylon. It is time to get reaquainted. Again.
I am welcomed back with the familar feel, the touch, the smell. A turn
of the key brings a familiar noise, followed by the grumble and roar
that signals that she has slept too long. I mutter soothing words and
minister gently to give what she needs. We argue briefly, then make up
again.
Closly coordinated action of hands and feet brings us back into a
familiar motion. We ease to the end of the drive, peer over the
snowbanks into the blinding sun, and ease out into the world, ready to
explore it together again.
The first corner comes up quickly, we dance, slide, and pirouette around
in the dust, sand, and grit leftover from last weeks festivities. The
run to the main road is laced with familiar and new obstacles. The sound
in my ears brings a thrill to the heart. Racing down the road, we pass a
bright, shiny milk truck, our reflection perfect in it's polished side.
Turn, slip, dance, glide, the power in the hands, every tiny motion
communicated through the spine. We are together again, rushing through
the countryside, rushing through the past, creating another memory.
We spend the next few hours together, learning again, sharing again,
finding and exploring my soul. As we meander the roads of upstate New
York, the hills covered in snow, the sun bright in a crystal blue sky,
the wind warm, cold, and gentle on my hair, I think that this is one of
my joys in life. That day has arrived, and it is a familiar epiphany.
Nothing like driving the convertible, top down, in February.
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