The most striking thing about the Mustang was its color: A pale lime green that people either loved or hated. Hardly anyone ever commented on the Mustang without mentioning its color, or adding, “Too bad it’s not a convertible.”

It wasn’t a convertible. It was a 2005 2-Door Classic Hatchback Sedan that my late husband had purchased in Florida and cruised around in for two months until he had a slight accident. A fender bender, he’d rear-ended someone. Was distracted for a moment, said he didn’t see the person in front of him stop. No big deal.

A few weeks later, when his memory gaps became more pronounced, it was a big deal. Advanced lung cancer that had already spread to his brain. Vietnam, Agent Orange. He was given four months to live.

That’s when they both came home, he to his old home and the Mustang to its new home, on the Auto Train from Florida to Northern Virginia. 

With his condition worsening rapidly, my husband no longer felt safe to drive the Mustang. I much preferred my SUV to the Mustang, but I indulged him by driving him to his appointments in the Mustang, always afraid that I might make a mistake, crank the gears, brake too sharply, or bungle negotiating it into tight parking spots. If I did, he never let on. He accepted my amateurish handling of the Mustang as stoically as he did his dire health prognosis.

Four months and six days after being diagnosed, he passed away and was laid to rest at Arlington Cemetery, with full military honors befitting a highly decorated vet who’d served in two wars. Fairfax County notified me that the Mustang was now mine, as part of his estate, and required me to get a substitute title.

I did not want the Mustang. Just looking at it added to my grief. I offered it to our adult sons, but they declined. The Mustang was not a convenient vehicle for car seats and shuttling around small children. And so it sat at the curb, a painful reminder every time I looked out the window. I couldn’t bring myself to drive it, but selling it felt like a betrayal of my husband’s memory, another painful parting.  

I drove it occasionally just to move it, but after a medical condition made it difficult for me to get into low cars, it stayed at the curb, which took its toll. When it failed the annual inspection because of tire rot and rusted brakes, I paid a heavy repair bill, but still balked at selling it. Over the years, I was grateful for any family member or friend or visitor from out of town who needed a car and would borrow it, just to put some miles on it. They all loved the experience of cruising around in it. 

The biggest benefactor was Ben, an old friend of my husband’s, who lived in the Netherlands and borrowed it twice-a-year on his visits to the US. He probably put more miles on it than anyone, including myself. But then Ben passed too; he won’t need it anymore. 

Three of the four grandchildren, by then of driving age, declined, mostly because their parents thought a classic muscle car lacking modern conveniences such as a back-up cameras, passing indicators, or hands-free calling was too much for them to handle. 

Gradually, my sentimental barriers to selling it started to crumble. I knew it was the right thing to do. It was rotting away when it deserved to be driven by someone who enjoyed it. But dropping it off at Carmax I’d have no idea where it would end up. Like a cherished pet, I wanted to see it in good hands. 

When inspection time rolled around again, I took it to the shop and told them that I was thinking of selling it.

“Do just what’s needed to get it through the inspection.” 

They did, but alerted me that the belts were loose and there was a $1,500 repair bill for that coming up in the not-too-distant future. 

It was then that I knew I had to let it go. On my way home from the shop, I already got a text message from the mechanic:

“Just gave your number to one of our long-term customers. He’s interested.”

Eric called me shortly later. 

“You don’t have to be home,” he said. “I’d just like to drive by and have a look.”

But a few minutes later, he rang my doorbell after all. I liked him right away. Good vibes.

“Mind if I look under the hood?”

“Of course not.” 

He popped the hood and started it up, and then – the engine let out a terrible screech as soon as it turned over. I was mortified. 

“It didn’t do that when I just drove it home,” I stammered, which was true.

“Hhm.” He scratched his head. “This could be a $300 or a $3,000 issue. How long have you been a customer at that garage?”

“Just a couple of years, they’ve worked on my SUV.”

“I’ve been taking my cars there for over 20 years,” he said. “I trust them.”

There was a split second when my conscience knocked loudly. Should I tell him about the problem with the belts?

“Why don’t you call them then,” I said instead. “If you know them, they can tell you all about the car, since they just worked on it.

He did, and texted me back a day later.

“They told me about the belt repair. The best I can do for you is offer you X amount of dollars ‘as is’.” His offer was actually top dollar, much higher than the Blue Book price and what others had offered.

I hesitated for a couple of days, then texted him back. “If you want it, it’s yours.”

“Great,” he texted back. “I’ll be by tomorrow with a cashier’s check. Please get the paperwork ready and remove your belongings so I can pick it up tomorrow.”

As I printed out a Bill of Sale and signed over the title, I glanced out the window at the familiar sight of the Mustang sitting at the curb, my feelings alternating between sadness, ambivalence, and relief. It was getting real now. 

Without ever having test-driven it, Eric signed the sales contract, handed me a cashier’s check, and looked at the title that now had his name on it. The odometer reading was 30,455.3 miles. Not bad for a 17-year-old car.

“I’d like to have the plates back,” I said. “They’re vanity plates.”

 “I was wondering what the plates meant. ‘VVT, Heroes live forever’”?

“VVT stands for ‘VietNamVet’ and ‘Heroes live forever’ is commemorative for law enforcement officers.”

“Of course,” he nodded. “Thanks for letting me borrow them. I will drop them off as soon as I’ve registered the car.”

I snapped a few last pics as Eric got in, started it up, and slowly eased it down the road. The engine purred like a fat cat and didn’t screech at all. Maybe the Mustang was already trying to please its new owner. 

I have a feeling it will be in good hands and get the TLC it deserves. It wasn’t fair to let it rot at the curb just to soothe my grief. I think my husband would agree. And since the new owner lives nearby, maybe I’ll see it on the road sometime.