The car I learned how to drive in would later become the first car I owned. He -- well, it -- was a shabby 1996 Subaru Legacy wagon that I eventually named Stanley. He -- “it” doesn’t feel right -- was a clunky old thing my dad had picked up somewhere along the line, dingy and dented, rusting at the bottom with peeling paint of various shades of red decorating his drab body. He looked sad and forlorn like a junkyard car intentionally left behind, and he came with a long list of problems.

The day my dad handed me the keys to Stanley cautioned me to, “Never get into an accident,” as the car’s transmission was loose and would likely come through the floor and kill me if I hit the brakes too hard. I still don’t know if he was serious or if he was just trying to scare me, but either way, it worked. I never got into an accident in Stanley, which -- looking back, seems like a bit of a miracle. The steering wheel was difficult to turn, the brakes extremely soft, the acceleration slow to kick in, and the vehicle shook terribly when going at speeds above 60 mph. The driver’s seat became stuck at a certain point and wouldn’t slide closer to the steering wheel, making it difficult for my short legs to reach the pedals. The car was too old to have a CD player and the tape deck was broken. Stanley’s alignment was off and he veered severely to either the left of the right, the direction depending on the last turn we had taken. His headlights were dim and the brights made almost no difference. All in all, he was a complete mess, and I loved him dearly.

Part of what made him so special was the relationship he helped me build with my dad. My mom was terrified to take me driving, refusing to let me take the wheel of her Honda even on a short drive around town. My dad drove out nearly every weekend to pick me up in the patchy red Subaru, letting me pilot it wherever I wanted and wherever he felt was safe. He patiently talked me through the basics of driving and answered my seemingly endless questions. In between, we talked about small things -- the weather, my plans, how school was going. It was effortless, mindless conversation, intended to let me focus on driving while taking away any fear or stress I might be experiencing. Sometimes we were silent, with nothing but the hum of the engine to keep us company as I steadily built up miles and confidence. I didn’t mind. I liked seeing my father’s quiet approval as I slowly became a more capable driver, and the pride in his eyes when I passed my license test on the first try. Then, Stanley was mine.

I took careful care of Stanley, but he was old and broken to begin with, so it was his fate to gradually fall apart in the year and few months that I had him. I slapped a Bernie Sanders bumper sticker on him sometime in the fall of 2015, and another sticker boasting an equality sign in support of same-sex marriage; Stanley said a lot about me. I kept a worn quilt on the backseat for late-night adventures with friends, and faithfully used the worn green seat cover my dad gave me as a gift. Stanley was something I cherished, a source of my freedom and a safe space for me to sit in and cry when there was an aspect of my life I couldn’t handle.

Stanley started to go downhill in 2016, refusing to accelerate up a small mountain once during the winter and again, on the same mountain, this time in August, and this time with an addition of smoke. I drove home and decided it was time to say goodbye.

I now have a new (to me) car, an ’01 RAV4. It’s a simple, straightforward car, with all parts in good working condition. I’m looking forward to the places I’ll go in it and the memories I’ll make, but deep down I know no car will ever hold a kindle to Stanley. My friends knew him by name, his sides are scraped by curbs I bumped on missed judgement calls, and his insides have held late-night conversations, teary-eyed confessions, kisses and hugs and heartbreaks and happiness. To Stanley, thank you for everything.