Mourning the Loss of My Dad — and His Jeep

“Why does our car look so dirty?” my 5-year-old daughter, Fianna, recently asked after hopping into the back seat of our Jeep at school pickup. We watched her friend slide into a Back to the Future–looking side door of the blue Tesla in front of us before I responded, “This car is superspecial.”

We’re both right. There are deep white lines on the passenger side from scratching the car against the mailbox while trying to reverse out of our driveway. The crevices of the pleather back seats are filled with cheesy crackers, apple sauce, and pretzels. Baby wipes, small Frozen dolls, and a Baby Shark book are stuffed into the back pockets, and empty water bottles, used masks, and lollipop wrappers fill the side compartments.

“Because it’s Grandpa Jack’s?” Fianna asked as we pulled out of the school parking lot. I smiled and nodded. My dad, Grandpa Jack, died eight years ago, before I was married or had kids. I inherited his now-12-year-old green Grand Jeep Cherokee. It has kept him alive ever since.

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