My mom and her dented Honda Odyssey

A good friend made me think of my mom today. So I did, and as I often do, I can't help but also think about when my mom bought a silver Honda Odyssey.

Some people go crazy when they retire. They go on year-long vacations, buy million-dollar homes and schedule a string of 3-michelin star meals. My mom? She bought a minivan.

"Why?" was my first question.

"I would like to be able to carry things," she said.

I turned my head slightly to the side but kept my eyes locked on her, as I do so many times when I want to look skeptical. "Why not get a truck?" Trucks are cooler than minivans. I didn't say that. I also didn't say that my mom would look ridiculous in a truck.

"I also would like to be able to carry people."

And that's what she did. Carry people. Pseudo-literally, it was more like she ferried them from one place to another. To be honest, I was genuinely impressed with what she did at first.

She once taught Sunday School to a bunch of kids. She loved them. Loved them. Invited them over to bake Christmas cookies. Showered them with prizes which were easy to earn. And when they got older, she spent two hours every Saturday night picking them up from their homes and taking them to church, and then taking them home, because their parents wouldn't do it. It was like the party bus. Or the Homvee. That van had more nicknames I can remember.

And the van held up well. I remember coming home from high school and being impressed at this big hulk of metal in our driveway, with its pristine shine and massive, but family-friendly structure.

So I remember the first dent well. It was pretty bad. Just above the front tire on the passenger side, it looked as if it was punched in. Like someone took a hammer or a baseball bat.

I asked what had happened. She was exhausted, didn't gauge a turn properly and hit a pole.

"You really should cut back, mom," I told her, "don't overwork yourself."

"No, I'm ok," she'd look back at me. I knew she saw me still as a 5-year-old kid, with her soft face and overly sweet eyes. "You don't understand," she'd start, before turning to look out the window, "you'll see when you grow up..." She said this when I was 18. And then 22. And then 24.

She'll say it when I go back for this 4th of July.

I asked about every new dent. Small. Large.

One day I came home from college and took a peek at the minivan. Something caught my eye.

"Is that new?" I asked my brother, pointing to just under the headlights.

"I don't know," he grinned, "I can't tell anymore."

The next time I actually noticed was when the damage was so bad, and because it was on the trunk door.

"She backed into one of those parking poles," my brother explained.

"Doing...what?"

"I think she was taking someone to go see a doctor. One of the Chinese uncles?" he shrugged, forcing a smile after a few seconds. "I'm not sure you'll have to ask her. She doesn't say too much."

Turns out my brother was right. "Mom, you really should relax a little bit," I frowned. "You're not helping anyone if you overwork yourself."

She caught wind of my frustration, but played her usual hand anyway. "No, you don't understand," she'd sigh.

"Aren't you retired?" I pushed back. I remember checking the odometer. More than 100,000 miles. In 5 years. Maybe.

"When you grow up..." she started.

I wanted to tell her to go on vacation. To go to Hawaii. Or at least just stay home and not drive.

The passenger door was next.  Then the radio antenna. Then the other passenger door.

And then came the insides. The arm rests, the seats, ventilation.

The last time I visited, one entire passenger door was broken.

It's funny, because the soul of the minivan is intact. But its outsides are battered and worn. Used, and loved for every drive it's been on, and it's served so well. But if the van had feelings, it'd feel--in a word--tired.

I wish no more hardships on that minivan. I wish we could retire it.

It's been 10 years since my mom stopped working for money. I wish she'd stop driving thousands of miles every year. I wish she'd retire.

She won't.

"You don't understand," she told me once over the phone, her voice frail, but with a quiet bounce to it. "I went to a restaurant to deliver newspapers, and the owner said, she said," my mom stopped before breaking out into a short chuckle.

'Oh Auntie I'm so happy to see you. I'm so happy whenever you come to drop off these newspapers. I'm usually so despressed but when I see you I'm happy. You are such a blessing, thank you for coming.'

And then because she's my mom, she bookends the story with, "Can you believe it? All of these people think I'm important. They are so crazy. They must not know your real mom."

I kept my mouth shut.

"I'm going to go again tomorrow to deliver more papers."

And I realize, I can't really deny my mom that. I can't tell her to not jump inside that minivan and drive another thousand miles. And even if I did, she wouldn't listen.

My mom will keep using that Odyssey as long as it runs. Until that engine fails to crank that one last time. Until the only thing that breaks the van's spirit to run is the sheer frailty of its body. And even then, my mom will summon all the willpower in the universe to make that van run, one, last, time.

Because that's how my mom lives.

That's how she lives.