Grief is such a wild ride.
My Dad left earth almost 10 years ago. And as my car, which was his car, gets older I have been thinking a lot about how hard it will be for me to have to say goodbye to it eventually. Maybe I won't. Maybe I will just let it collect dust forever, even after I can no longer add numbers to the odometer. But while I am constantly trying to declutter this house of mine, and I wouldn't consider myself to be a very sentimental person when it comes to things, this car is a thing I can't imagine parting with.
This is the car that my Dad gave to me (to us) after he couldn’t drive anymore. The same car I drove him to doctors appts in until he was wheelchair bound. And the same car that I drove his ashes, in the passenger seat, back to my house in. This car holds such a special connection to my Dad. We named it Donda (Don's Honda). He used to drive a little stick shift sports car (we actually both had matching red Del Sol's at one point), but when ALS started to take away the strength in his feet and legs he knew he had to get an automatic. And he knew that his driving days were limited as is, even though he never said it out loud, so he brought my husband with him to help him pick out a car… I knew he was actually just buying a car for our family. That was his generous heart. He didn’t say it. But you felt it. So, this car is more than just a car to me.
This was inspired once again by a photo project presented by Laurken Kendall. And thank you to my wonderful friends Emily and Luke for allowing me to use Gemini Vineyards for my backdrop. I originally was just going to photograph the car. I wanted to have a nice photo to hold onto so that whatever happened to Donda, I would always have that. Thank god for photos. Then after a couple days of thinking more on it, I decided that maybe I could photoshop him into the passenger seat next to me. Its faint, and intentionally hard to see, but he is there. And that is how I tend to feel him in my actual life too. He is a constant observer in my dreams. Often sitting in the corner, or popping in to say hi right before I wake up. And never in a wheelchair. He also shows up as a dot of a rainbow in the sky on so many of my drives. Or a Huey Lewis, Eric Clapton, Eagles, Stevie Ray Vaughn or Keb Mo song in the unlikeliest places. And when I was taking these photos, I felt him there too.
They didn’t turn out quite like I envisioned. It’s not a cool old bronco, or beat up truck, so it’s hard to add the “grit” I was hoping for. And I couldn't get my hands on a fog machine in time to make the headlights look like I wanted. But I like the concept most of all. And I am thankful that I will have this photo to hold on to.
I miss my Dad so much. Always, but a little extra lately. He was an incredibly flawed human, and made endless mistakes as a Dad, but he was just my person. We had twin souls (as one friend said one time). I kept it. He gave the best hugs. He knew how to be present. He was a killer guitar player. He was hilarious and had the best laugh, and when I think of him, that is what I see. He knew how to sit with me in the hard moments and celebrate me in the good ones. And while I could be mad that he was taken way too early, and my kids have the great misfortune of never feeling his full strength hugs, I choose to be grateful that I got to be his daughter and that they both carry so much of him in their sense of humor and musicianship.
This project also is inspiring me to offer these types of photoshoots for others. I have found it so healing for me, and I know it could be for others. So if you have an idea of a way we can create a photo you can hold on to, I am here for it! A home you might have to say goodbye to that holds so many memories. A campsite you always went to. A kitchen you baked together in. A garden they planted. Let's preserve these memories and make a photo that you can hold on to, long after that "thing" is physically gone.
