Evan’s Tire and Auto Repair is the kind of place you walk into and end up petting a docile pit bull one minute, turning to puzzle over a hornet’s nest decoration the next, and hand over the title to the car you’ve had for 10 years the next moment. Eddie is the man standing in front of me winking and handing me two hundred dollars, a quotient of money without wheels.

“I still have to clean it out.” I tell Eddie, as if he hasn’t noticed the rotting bananas and the layers of grime pressed into the floorboard.

I am now in Evan’s garage, through a door I always thought was just for employees. There is Independence with her hood open, alone in the middle of the operation as if she’s being prepared for surgery. Nothing in her is worth that much, but still I am this materialist scavenger, robbing her grave. I am afraid of my situation, feeling the vulnerability of the moment, shivering in a warm place.

I need to feel the grief of this moment. But for Eddie and Russ and for me (”I have to clean it out.”) time is money. I am a student with a 10:30 class and no room for mood changes or heavy emotions to weigh me down. I need to make myself as light as possible because it is 9 in the morning and today I am walking to class.

The significance, therefore, is not in the list of necessary items I take with me, but the sea shells and trinkets and thick layer of dirt and epidermis I leave behind. I have no regrets regarding the two pints of oil that I leave in her front seat, even the snazzy CD player. The physical matter at hand is nothing compared to the memories I’ve had with her. On her dashboard, I leave a small collection of mussels from the Clinch River and a variety of trinkets that I actually forget because of the march of time.

I drove Independence 200,000 miles of the 300,000 she accrued. According to an my Internet search, the accumulation of miles I drove her is about as far as the circumference of the Earth.

Now, I am walking the three to four miles between here and my college. My relationship with Independence was always bittersweet. There were the wrecks and speeding tickets that marked my first few years with her. I have moments, driving songs, and company (human and canine passengers) imprinted in my mind of our journeys. So when I pass certain places I think of the Women’s Tribute to Greg Brown or the songs my friends and I sang as we rolled along. Every second now, as I walk past the cows and cars on my way to class, I think of the opportunity that life has opened for me. I need to keep feeling the real sad loss of knowing she might be crushed if Eddie cannot fix her. But selling her brought me something much larger than two paper bills that will be gone in a couple trips to the grocery store.

For every mile I had driven, I could have been walking, riding a bike, or catching a ride with the multitude of friends who are now rising to the occasion of helping me. I am discovering the legacy of “Independence” has not been left behind, resold, or recycled into scrap metal. The namesake and legacy of my first and only car is becoming increasingly a part of my own two legs, my feet, my heels, and my soles and all.