“Mother always knows best.” Mom told me that many times, about lots of things, including her car. “I can’t really explain why I picked this one,” she said of her new, 1991 silver Honda Civic, “but somehow it just feels right to me.”
When Mom died unexpectedly a few months later, the car became mine. I drove that Civic for the next eight years and 165,000 miles. I’d have driven that car forever. Every time I climbed in the driver’s seat, I thought of Mom.
Eventually, though, the car began to wear down. Its repair costs began to resemble a hospital bill. Hard as it was, it was time to say goodbye to the car—and, in a way, goodbye all over again to Mom.
I decided pretty quickly on a Nissan this time, an Altima. But I couldn’t decide on the color. Gold or black? “Let me take the black one for a test drive,” I told the sales rep. I drove it around the block. Something about it just didn’t feel right, though I couldn’t explain why. In fact, sitting in the driver’s seat, I felt a bit ill.
“Can I try the gold one?” I asked.
“Sure,” the sales rep said. I took the car for a spin. I felt fine. Maybe, I thought, it’s a sign. “I’ll take the gold one,” I said.
After finishing with the paperwork, the sales rep walked me to the door. “Oh, by the way,” he said, as I climbed into the car, “there’s a number engraved on your key. That’s your key code. If you ever need a replacement key, you’ll need that number. So write it down.”
As I pulled away from the dealership, I spotted my old Civic in the rearview mirror. “Bye, Mom,” I said.
Twenty minutes later, I was back home. In the kitchen, I grabbed a notepad and pen, and studied the four-digit key code.
I put down the pen. “Mother always knows best,” I said, with a smile. The key code was Mom’s birth year. I didn’t need to write it down.
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