In 2009, when the Proton Exora first launched, we visited the showroom as a family. My father was there. Kathleen, without hesitation, paid the deposit. I remember being caught off guard, yet secretly excited about the new journey we were starting in that car.
For years, that Exora was the vessel for our lives. It saw the transition of our family, the growth of our son, Jesse, and the daily rhythms of our home. It later became Ben’s primary carriage. (Ben is my rescue dog.)
This year, during the Chinese New Year holidays, the Exora finally gave out. On the eve of the festival, I took Ben for his annual jab. The next day, driving to my mother’s house, the dashboard flickered “Lo.” The battery was dying. I barely made the final turn; the engine cut out just as I glided to a stop right in front of her gate. It was as if the car knew it had reached its final destination.
The alternator was gone. The battery wasn’t just empty; it was being drained.
Standing there in the heat of the holidays, with workshops closed and the organization of towing piling up, I felt a sudden, sharp exhaustion. I didn’t want to fix it. I didn’t want to struggle with it anymore. I just wanted to let it go.
On the fourth day of the New Year, the buyers arrived. They looked at the car – the wear and tear of seventeen years, the bad condition, the stalled engine. We haggled over the price, eventually meeting in the middle. They transferred the money and left to find a tow truck.
My sister helped me clear out the car. It is strange what a life leaves behind in a glove box and under the seats: sunglasses, phone holders, books, a steering lock, a mountain of loose coins, and packets of tissues. We gathered the fragments of seventeen years into a few bags.
When the tow truck finally arrived, the men expertly maneuverer the Exora out into the road. I stood on the pavement and snapped a few photos. As they hooked the front tires to the back of the truck and began to drive away, I got into my other car to move it into the now-vacant spot.
I ended up driving behind the tow truck for a short distance.
Suddenly, the imagery overlapped in a way that was both absurd and devastating. The sight of my car being pulled away, helpless and silent, mirrored the memory of the hearse carrying Kathleen’s casket to the crematorium. The same finality. The same slow procession. The same feeling of watching something that held so much of my life being taken out of my sight.
In the past, I used to park that Exora across the road by the park. I would often worry while I was out; I worried someone else would take the spot, and I’d have nowhere to park when I returned.
These last few days, I’ve looked out the window at that space. Occasionally, a neighbour’s car takes it for an hour or two. But most of the time, the spot is just… empty. It’s a vacant square of asphalt.
The Exora is gone, and the void it left is not filled. It is just like the other void in my life—the one left by Kathleen.
To those of you who are walking through your own “empty spots” today: it is okay to look at the void and feel its weight. We often try to rush to fill the spaces left by those we love, fearing the emptiness. But sometimes, the void itself is a testament to the space they once occupied. It is a silent tribute to a life that can never be replaced, only missed.
A Closing Prayer
Heavenly Father, thank You for the memories held in the simple things of this life. For those of us standing before an empty spot today – whether a parking space, a chair at the table, or a side of the bed – we ask for Your comfort. Soften the sharp edges of our grief. Remind us that while our loved ones are no longer in our sight, they are safe in Your care, and the love they left behind is a light that never truly goes out. Amen.
Leave a Reply