Letters to Poetwig: Secret Company

It used to be, I was alone. Friends whom I've grown close to have left the company where I have been staying for over nine years now. Almost a decade, nine times around the sun. I'd commute to work on my usual route, passing cars of strangers absorbed in their daily routine. I'd sit at a desk and do my work, not really part of a specific team as the company's shared resource. When lunch came, I'd take it to my desk to eat, introvertedly browsing my smartphone as the downstairs communal area was chock-full of coworkers sharing tidbits about their day. I'd take a walk when lunch is done, smelling the seasons in the air, the flowery scent of spring, the green leaves baked in summer sun, the rich scent of autumn with changing colors arrayed as a feast for the eyes, and the empty blandness of winter occasionally awash in rain. In the evenings, after a long day of the work and the office grew quiet, I'd haul my bag to the gym downstairs and start my exercise routine: stretches, treadmill or elliptical, ab crunches on the ball, weights, yoga. I felt isolated in my days, despite meetings and all the work interactions with coworkers, but no one knows me on an intimate level, the brightest part of my day being coming home and seeing my husband and dog.

And then you came along, my growing bean, at first just a concept, and then a group of cells quickly multiplying to become a being inside me with his own personality, progressing day by day. I'd talk to you in my anxiety, telling you to keep growing strong. I'd sing to you during my commutes to and from work to the Oldies I recorded on a USB stick for you, so that you would get to know the sound of my voice. If I worked past lunchtime, you'd nudge me gently, and then started kicking me forcefully, if I didn't feed you on time. On our walks, I'd whisper to you to tell you about all the sights surrounding you: the woman with her two dogs, the garden of hyacinths and jasmine, the water fountain, the beautiful blue sky. I'd go to the gym knowing I'm not just keeping myself healthy but you as well, and I push for my full half-hour workout. We'd snack together, and you'd stir in my belly, keeping secret company, and I don't feel so alone anymore.

We are linked by a simple umbilical cord, but my ineffable love for you runs deep. One day, we will be separate entities. You'll be on your own way, and I won't always know where you are or what you're doing at the moment. You won't be nudging me from inside, reminding me to snack and eat. They say you feel the phantom kicks of your little one long after they're born, so in tune with your body as a mother. I'll never forget the secret company I kept with you, my little one. Thank you for growing in me, for letting me know that, even when I am feeling my loneliest, I am never truly alone.

Ode to tC Sen

My husband Tung relinquished his nine-year-old car today. As we have traded up for a bigger, family-sized crossover model, he said goodbye to his Scion tC sports coupe and signed off the car to his dad to use as a commuter vehicle. The tC has clocked over 100,000 miles.

 

In contrast, we were given the keys to our brand-new Subaru Outback, “Subie Sen,” when it had a fresh 4 miles on it, shipped straight from the production facility in Indiana to the dealership lot where we bought it.

 

We bought the tC together as Tung’s first new car, back in 2006 when we were still college students, before we got married or owned a house together or expected a baby on the way. It was a trade-in for his Mitsubishi Eclipse, a sporty, green, obnoxious model with an American engine that died on us in the middle of parking lots and the road to beach bonfires with friends, an embarrassment to all cars passing smog check as it constantly spewed clouds of carcinogenic, noxious bile while we idled in the In-n-Out drive-thru waiting for our order and feeling bad for all the cars behind us in line.

“tC Sen” was a good car, requiring little else than new low-profile tires every so often, content with the basic oil changes, 87-Octane gas, and fluid top-offs. He got flecks on his front flint-mica bumper from all the road trips we took together, up and down the California coast. He got windshield chips from errant rocks flung up at him during Tung’s commute to Pleasanton, taking him from college jobs to several companies as he tested out the waters of different Silicon Valley tech corporations, from start-ups to post-IPOs. He had a huge, almost all-glass panoramic moon roof that Tung would expose on our summer drives during date nights so I could gaze up at the stars and tree branches that whizzed by overhead in a blur as we picked up speed, inhaling the scent of oak leaves and jasmine blossoms from the outside. For a tiny coupe, he packed a huge trunk space, carrying our boxes of clothes and belongings and disassembled furniture as we moved in together, then all the goods from Home Depot as we new homeowners frantically patched up the house to be in live-able condition. Over the winters, we loaded up his hood with Christmas trees to tote home and adorn our house with holiday warmth and cheer.

 

Now, it’s on to bigger things. New things. There’s no doubt that lots of fresh new memories will be made in our Outback, the first car we own that will bear a baby seat and stroller, diaper bags and a squirming little body in the backseat, along with our dog, as we brave new road trips and adventures together as a growing family. 

There is a fondness that grows in your heart for inanimate things. We are “lifers” with our cars. We don’t believe in leasing or trading in every couple of years for new models and new technology. When you’re part of an immigrant generation that landed on American soil with nothing but a few outfits that you’ll quickly outgrow and a handful of cash to start a new life, you value what you can accomplish, and what you can afford to buy. Over the years, through hard work and dedication, your material possessions grow. You can do more, purchase more. But you never forget the ones that started you off, that saw you through the more difficult and unaccomplished parts of your life struggles. 

 

Thank you, tC Sen, for giving us that privilege. We’ll miss you but know that you’re not too far away, racking up the miles toward new adventures.