So with an ominous whine the transmission in our family van is demanding a prince’s ransom. The lumpy couch and our other household squeaky wheels will have to wait.
Thirteen hundred dollars. Reason enough to contemplate what we’re buying.
That total mystery of metal, that complex cylinder propelled us to so many places. A scrum of gears that coaxed so much forward motion out of what would have been fruitless rotation. Our progress came from an intricate gnashing — gritting, if you will — of teeth.
Transmitting motion. Your foot to the pedal — to the pistons — to the axle — to the wheels — to the road — again to our feet, safely at our destinations. Forward.
Onward. To family adventures and Sunday dinners. To emergency rooms and romantic getaways. Even out of the paths of hurricanes. Forward. Onward. Together.
So when what moves us forward wears down, I reckon we owe ourselves thirteen hundred dollars to rebuild it. If the fluid gets low and our teeth wear against each other in a grating clash, can we do anything but scrape out the metal shavings and set some sturdy new gears?
Because when we mesh, we move. Unless we clutch each other, we’re just spinning in place.
I promise to always rebuild the transmission. I promise to spend whatever it takes to get us moving again. I desperately love the feeling of moving forward with you, side by side, to wherever love sends us.
So, at least for me, a rebuilt transmission does quite nicely as a Valentine.