Ode to the Jeep
Finding solace on Interstate 5
By Brooke Wilson
He said to take it on the chin and just work through the pain.
That seemed to be his solution for everything, including how to continue working together after splitting up.
Saturated in ample sunshine, a workplace romance blossomed in the bashful smiles and jokes exchanged across the counter that past summer. But as quickly as it started, it was over. And the sun-stained snapshots from those days grew faded, from another lifetime.
On the brink of the holiday season, I hauled bulging suitcases into my awaiting chariot, a 1998 Jeep Sport Cherokee. I plowed across I-5 with a conviction that could part the seas, move mountains and perhaps seize what might be the last opportunity to resolve a bitter, anticlimactic end to a hopeful relationship.
Needless to say, expectations were running high and ignoring the storm clouds that gathered overhead became challenging but not impossible.
Not until I received a phone call that startled me awake on the morning of Christmas Eve.
“Your grandpa passed away.”
And the rain poured.
— —
Cranking the faded needle past 60 mph on the speedometer, bass boomed from the speakers inside my faithful bucket of bolts. Sleigh bells and Sinatra faded from crooning to crackling as I lost signal past the exit for Marysville. I flicked through the channels, instinctively searching.
I spent a great deal of time on the road the past few months, driving back and forth between two lives. One with responsibilities in Bellingham and the other back home with a pursuit dictated by heartache. I drove to forget, to reminisce, to keep myself preoccupied and to seek some elusive answer for curing all the pain that might be in the pastures and road signs that whizzed by. Between planning a funeral, scheduling a memorial and reconciling a romantic loss, I came to realize a few truths on these road trips.
Through all the moments we feebly attempted to carry on with business as usual, the abrasive silence could have easily filled a canyon. With my grandpa, who I exchanged fewer words with than I could count on both hands, I lost the chance to grow closer. Since his passing, I wondered about the person beneath the man everyone recognized. The one who served in the Air Force and toured overseas, who created his now infamous jelly recipe and became a New York Times crossword puzzle extraordinaire in the Wilson household.
I grappled with the distance, gaping wider with each step closer to the void.
Rather than retreat to the Jeep for another solitary road trip, I began leaning on family, friends, neighbors and roommates who helped lighten the load. The ones who listened patiently, embraced me warmly and encouraged me to lead with positivity kept me grounded when everything else appeared in vertigo.
On another caffeine-induced drive, bending around Chuckanut and silently pleading with the universe to end its siege, a muffled lyric from the late ’90s stereo prompted a realization.
“You can’t hurry love, no you’ll just have to wait.”
Diana Ross and The Supremes had a point about not rushing love. There isn’t any prescribed timeline for healing. Though the incessant ticking from the clock sounded haunting, the time that passed also signaled an opportunity to navigate the terribly paved and uneven cracked road. Time creates a buffer that racking up mileage simply cannot achieve.
Above all, within the stretch of 101 miles that physically separated me from the muse of my grief, I awoke to a beautiful, nostalgic truth.
The Jeep has carried me without question, without ridicule, without revolting against the driver fraught with tears. Cup holders stuffed with random junk became mementos in a time capsule on wheels. Crumpled tissues, a shriveled yellow rosebud from a bouquet my ex-whatever brought me, and a mason jar that once carried delicious homemade apple pie jelly.
I owe more than safe travels to that rumbling ride.
First carrying me home from the hospital as a newborn baby, bearing with me as a newly licensed driver and now a tried and true companion in the wake of inexplicable grief. Four wheels and dated upholstery have served a purpose greater than merely reaching a destination — it has restored peace of mind.
Yes, that road may be a long, winding one that circles back or steers off the beaten path, but these travels that seem infinite are not even close to what lies ahead — the whole journey. Processing grief becomes a crucial part in reaching the next destination, wherever that may be.
Grief is often illustrated as a journey that must be faced alone, with an unabated inner-monologue as your only companion. But when I accelerate onto the ramp, flying solo down the highway, I am never truly alone.
