Car wash with love.
It was strange, I have always loved my silver '98 volvo but I have never felt closer to it than today when I gave him a full cleaning and hand wash. I meticulously vacuumed every part of the inside and methodically scrubbed every surface on the outside. As I knelt wiping the face of license plate and undercarriage I looked at my car head on and felt like I looking at a real person with a real personality, thinking I'm cleaning this hood with love. And when it was all done, and every window lever was scrubbed clean, every grain of sand was sucked from the cracks, I felt proud of my Norbert.
Yes, my car is a boy. Being a volvo with the male enameled on the hood insignia, I feel it's fitting. I also feel that people decided their car's sex based on the opposite of their own; that's why all guys think their cars/boats/motorcycles are girls. But I just can't think of my car as a girl; it's strange. My sister's green Saab: Salazar. My mom's Silver Honda: Percy Weasley Jackon. My friend's black Jeep: Frederick. The only girl I know with a girl-named car is the name of an owl: Hedwig.
I didn't realize this until later, but, with the exception of Frederick (who, granted, was the first named car I knew) , most named cars I know tend be Harry Potter names. Which says of course that "Words are our most inexhaustible form of magic." And what are names but words we give?
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