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I have some very sad news about a family member that I need to share. My dearest one, my black, faux-wood grained, Hyundai Sonata died this weekend. She was 16 years old. When I bought her in 2003, she was only the second new car I had ever owned--a position she maintains today.
2003 was such a momentous year for me. I graduated from grad school. I got married that year. Got my first full-time journalism job, which I worked alongside a part-time gig selling mattresses in order to pay my bills. My gleaming brand-new Hyundai seemed like such a luxury.
I had upgraded from my Kia Sephia and she had a tape deck AND a CD player and this fancy cupholder armrest in the back seat and if you squinted hard, she looked like a Jaguar, and, well, she was a nice as a Jaguar to me.
My Sonata got to see the entire breadth of this vast country, stopping in places few black people ever go, like the Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota, as it carried me from North Carolina to my second journalism job in Portland. It sat outside the first house I ever bought.
I brought my daughter home in its backseat, and when I made my last car payment and finally got to stop working two jobs, I kept her because she was mine and I was hers and we had already been through so much together.
And then when the big city of New York came calling, she loyally came back across this vast country with me. But she struggled in a city that can break the best of us. More aggressive cars banged her bumpers, the roads tore up her shocks. She stopped making AC, her dash warped.
People kept telling me, Nikole, you've got to let her go. She's old. You can't keep putting money into her. You're not broke anymore -- you can start riding in style. But I had to be loyal to the one who was loyal to me.
Even as cars got rear view cameras and heated steering wheels, Bluetooth and moon roofs, I stuck with her. I would always proudly proclaim: I am going to ride her til the wheels come off! And this weekend, well, they did. 
And so I must bid farewell to one of the loves of my life, and pour out a little Penzoil for her. I hope she understands. I am forever grateful for her service. If it’s in your heart, please say a few words in her honor and thank you for sharing my pain. 😓
