Kindness, with a Key

For me, it would be my car — a 2006 Honda Accord.
It’s coming up for its 20th birthday next year and has 250,000 km on the clock.

I’m the third owner. I bought it from friends I know well — the kind of people who are fastidious with everything they own. I’d dropped in to visit them one day and noticed a sign in the window of their car. It was for sale. My own car at the time was still working fine — old, but in good condition — but I couldn’t walk past this one. I knew what I was getting.

It gets better. They had bought it from a cousin who owned it from new and was just as meticulous. I’ve met him too, and I trust him as well. The car had been looked after from day one.

When it came time to talk price, we haggled — me trying to push the price up, them trying to push it down. They won. They’re good friends.

As expected, it’s been a good car. I use it regularly (though maybe not every day). I currently live a two-minute walk from one of the largest shopping centres in Australia. The train station is right across the road, and there’s a major bus interchange too. So green transport works for me — I walk most places or go by public transport.

But still, I keep the car. At that age it’s not worth selling, and it costs me little to run. Honestly, I’d rather give it away than sell it. After all, I only got it because of someone else’s kindness.

The main reason I keep it is my parents. They’re elderly now, and I like to visit them regularly, check on how they’re going. If there were a crisis, I’d need to get there quickly.

I won’t be living this close to the shops or the station forever. But this has been a great experience — learning how not to rely on a car. I expect this will be the last car I own. When it’s time to move on, I want to have structured my life so that I can travel by walking or public transport. And on the rare occasions that doesn’t work, there’s always rideshare or car share.

That’ll be better for everyone.
Better for my health.
Better for the planet.

Does it start first time these days?
Will I need it this week?

(Are we the kind who own cars,
or the kind who let them go—
walkers, planners,
grateful children of the train line?)

It is not worth selling.
It does not ask much.
A loyal thing,
bought from friends who knew its past
like family lore—
fastidious hands,
cousin to cousin,
keys passed down like quiet heirlooms.

When I drive it, it’s mostly to them—
my parents, still in their home.
If a call comes,
I want to go fast,
without waiting.

And the rest of the time—
I walk. I plan.
The buses breathe at the curb,
the station sings across the road.

Aren’t you ready to let it go?
someone once asked.

I shrugged. Not yet.
It still knows what to do.
It’s just waiting.
So am I.