I flew in to San Jose early Saturday morning of the wedding. It was too early to check in to the hotel, but I went anyway and camped in the lobby.
I saw Joe’s kids, but they didn’t know me. I hadn’t seen them since they were tiny and now the older of the two, the boy child I babysat once very long ago, was approximately nine feet tall and built like a brick wall. The girl child who had worn Santa slippers to a Fourth of July gathering as a toddler was a teenager, self-assured and joyful.
It was Joe’s mom who found me first. “Cousin Kristen!”
Family gathered slowly. At some point, the front desk clerk found a room for me and I changed quickly before we all loaded into cars to head to the wedding and reception site.
It was strange being back among them, these people who were a second family to me, after such a long time. It felt like coming home after a long absence.
The wedding was short and sweet and everyone cried. No one in Joe and Angie’s family has ever feared showing emotion. The reception was filled with song and dance. And then it was done.
We gathered later at the hotel at a firepit near the pool and talked for hours: parents, kids, cousins. New family and old.
It was time I needed with Angie and her family. It was a reminder of who we were to each other. It was a reminder of how much time had passed.
***
I was awake at an absurd hour the next morning, eager to head out on the next part of my California Adventure: picking up a rental car and driving into a past life. I knew the rental agency wasn’t open until 8, but there I was: wide awake at 5:30.
Being just days from my (how is this possible?) 50th birthday, I’d upgraded from my standard economy rental. The photo on the website had shown me a Dodge Challenger, something a little bigger and a little fancier than I have access to on the daily. A birthday car.
The woman at the car rental desk was amazing and, as it turned out, shared a birthday with me. “It’s early enough in the day that you really have your pick of the lot.”
“Awesome. What are my choices?”
She typed a few things into her computer. “We have a Dodge Challenger” type type type “a Camaro” type type “and a Ford Mustang.”
No hesitation. “What color is the Mustang?”
“White.” Nope. Been there.
“Red.” My mom told me not to get anything too flashy.
“Silver.” Sold.
It looks like a racecar. I’m laughing in the parking lot as I walk up to it. I laugh louder when I open the door and the running horse logo is splashed onto the pavement with the puddle lights. “This is so stupid.” I’m on the eve of 50 and I’m out of shape and even getting into the car is comedic enough that I’m glad I came by myself and the only witnesses are the parking lot attendants.
***
I got my first Mustang when I was 17, still in high school, a gift from my mom for my graduation. I didn’t even have a drivers license.
I’d been on a church retreat the first weekend in May and came home Sunday afternoon, cold, tired, and muddy. All I wanted was a hot shower and a long sleep. But there were my mom and her friend Bob looking like they’d pulled some sort of heist.
“We found you a car. We want you to go see it before papers are signed.”
“What is it?”
It was always going to be a Mustang.
octoberthoughtspdx 