Dear VW Rabbit,

Ya know that scene in "The Fox and the Hound" where the owner feels like she needs to return the fox to the wild so that it can live the life it was meant to live but it doesn't understand and chases after her car because it's too pure to understand abandonment? You do now, since that's what I had to do to trade you in.

Despite all of the frustrations about your parts failing, and mysterious scratches, and buzzing sounds that had no apparent function or locus, I'm really going to miss you. I knew I had to have you from the moment I accidentally kicked out your cup holders during the test drive, which remained to this, the very day years later I said farewell, broken. It was an omen, a sign.

I remember the first time we took a solo ride together after I got my license. You comforted me with your soothing butt warmers and A-1 speakers when I turned to the passenger seat and realized my mom wasn't pumping her imaginary breaks and holding on for dear life anymore.

Remember that time where I wasn't technically legal to drive my friends around because I didn't have six months of experience as a licensed driver under my belt?

YEAH, ME NEITHER I DON'T REMEMBER THAT, DEFINITELY DIDN'T HAPPEN.

We had such a good run, making late night runs to McDonald's with more passengers than legal just to get some McFlurries, speeding around town during some harrowing games of Hostage, blasting mixed CDs that my friends made for me since I didn't know there was an AUX chord until about a year in (but whose fault is that since it was located on the ceiling of the glove compartment, for heaven's sake).

I will never forget our first fender bender. We were leaving a seminar where they had just spoken of the harmful effects that come from people who don't drive defensively.

I will never forget the first road trip in which you got me through several states with severe weather that ended up being a tornado chasing us the whole way.

I will also never forget that, on the day I was due to make said trip back, you broke down. Then, once you were fixed a day later, you promptly got a flat tire in the dealership parking lot. You always kept me on my feet.

Our first and last trip through a car wash was a magical experience. Your first ever bath that I didn't give you, followed by an intense deep vacuum. During said deep vacuuming I found cherry chapstick from 10th grade, a receipt from one of my first grocery runs as a college freshman, and a necklace I thought I lost long ago.

Maybe, dear Volkswagen, we will meet again in another life. You'll drive past me on the street, we'll give each other a little nod, and we can both go on happy knowing that we're happy in our lives.

I'll miss you and all of the times we had together. Don't get in as many near-death experiences with anyone else, those are our special memories.

Yours fondly,
Meghan