We’re nearing the end of a major project that’s been years in the making—restoring a 1957 Chevy 210 that once belonged to my uncle. As my husband shared a story today about how he was certain my uncle’s spirit was messing with him while he worked on the car, something hit me.
I realized just how often I think about him.
And not just him—my maternal grandma, my paternal great aunt, my paternal grandparents.
They’ve all passed, yet they cross my mind every single day.
There are other relatives I’ve lost too—people I loved and still miss. But the ones I was especially close to? Their presence lingers. Their memories are woven into my daily life in ways I never expected.
A Car, A Connection
This car has become more than just a restoration project. It’s a rolling tribute. A reminder.
My uncle was one of a kind—gone far too soon. Years ago, my husband tried to buy the car from him, but he wasn’t ready to part with it. When my uncle passed, my aunt offered to sell it to us. She knew we’d treat it with care and restore it with love.
And we have.
But each new milestone—each bolt tightened, each part replaced or restored, each moment of progress shared with my cousins—comes with a flood of emotion. This car has become a way to keep my uncle close. I find myself wishing he could see what we’ve done. I wonder if he’d be proud. If he’d laugh (or roll his eyes) at the modifications made or nod in approval at the attention to detail and my husband’s efforts.
What We Take for Granted
Grief has a strange way of showing up. Sometimes it’s loud, other times it’s subtle. But today it showed up in full force. Because this isn’t just about a car. It’s about all the moments I didn’t get to share with the people I’ve loved and lost. The stories I never got to hear. The time I assumed we had more of.
We never really expect our loved ones to live forever. But we still imagine they’ll be here longer than they are. And when they’re gone, we cling to the things that remind us of them—their handwriting, their recipes, their favorite chair, their old Chevy.
The Ties That Bind
Family ties are complicated. Some are messy, painful, or frayed with time. But the ones I’ve been thinking about today—the ones I hold closest—are good. Deep. Unshakable.
They connect past and present in ways I didn’t fully understand until I found myself watching my husband turn a wrench on a car that holds more memories of my uncle and family than metal.
And somehow, I think my uncle sees it. I think he knows.
And I hope—more than anything—that he approves.