Requiem for a Minivan Stella, my 8-year-old, was crying. Her little shoulders heaved with sobs. Her face, buried into my belly, left streaks of tears on my T-shirt. Her grief was acute. I helplessly rubbed her back, murmuring soothing sounds. She wasn't mourning the loss of a family member, thank God. Not even a pet. But she had experienced a loss, nonetheless. We sold the minivan. We had bought our "pre-owned" Toyota Sienna CE (that's the base model) back in 2003, and it saw us through 10 years of car seats, booster seats, and can-I-sit-in-the-front seats. It bears the scars of repeated pukings, grimy kicks against the driver's seat and runny noses wiped on hands, then armrests. It wears the aging, sun-faded bumper stickers of three presidential elections. Each bumper is dented inward, giving it the appearance of a dimpled smile. Lila was too little to remember our buying it, and Stella wasn't yet born. The minivan had been a concession - a submission, really: My husband, Chris, and I had made the transition from childless 20s into family friendly 30s. The first time Chris got out of the car downtown, he turned to his friends on the sidewalk and said jokingly, "Jealous?" The truth was, they kind of were. They had a toddler with a new baby on the way, too. As our family aged, so did the minivan. And while for our kids that meant grown-up teeth and ballet slippers and (yikes!) training bras, for the van that meant windows that wouldn't lower, an air bag signal that wouldn't turn off, a mysterious ka-thunk sound on sharp turns. The June before last, it just barely passed inspection. At about the same time, Lila grew tall enough to sit in the front seat. And just like that, we no longer needed a minivan. Now, instead of focusing on the car's great hauling capacity, I fixated on how much gas it took to lug the car itself around. Slowly but surely we began plotting for a new vehicle. We researched painstakingly, Googling and test driving and hemming and hawing our way through another full year before we finally did it - finally showed up at a dealership, plunked down our cash and drove away in a sparkling new ride. It's no midlife crisis, this new car. It's still a total mom-mobile - a station wagon, no less, with all-wheel drive and a roof rack. It's no one's idea of sexy, and yet the sleek newness of it awed all four of us. "It feels too fancy to be dropped off to school in this," remarked Stella. "It doesn't feel like our car," Lila added. That evening the four of us bounded into our new car for an evening joy ride. As we pulled out, I noticed the minivan parked quietly, and I have to admit I had a momentary twinge, but I didn't voice it to myself until I noticed that Stella had become uncharacteristically quiet. I turned to look at her - so small in the new back seat. What's up, bug? Her face crumpled. "I can't stop thinking about the minivan," she said, the sobs bubbling up. I glanced quickly at Chris, then back at Stella, who was now burying her face in her hands. "Here we are all happy," she said, her voice muffled, "and it's all by itself." Chris pulled over and I got out with Stella, gathering her in for an embrace against the chill. You know the van doesn't really have those feelings, right, sweetie? I reminded her. Stella pulled away to look up at me, her face red and puffy. "I know that," she said indignantly. But I have feelings FOR it. Can't we keep it? No, we couldn't. We had a buyer picking it up the next morning. But when that buyer - a young dad of three named Jon - came by, I introduced him to Stella, and explained that she was having emotions "for" the minivan. "I totally understand," Jon said - did I mention he was a father of three? It looks like it's a good car. You've been really happy in that car. Stella nodded gravely, then looked down at the floor. And her grief, in that moment, became my own. We were really happy in that car. And just as buying it was submitting to young parenthood, selling it was conceding something else. We brought Stella home from the hospital in the minivan. We'll probably use the station wagon to deliver her to college. The station wagon now has scuff marks along the interior doors. The girls have mastered all the dials and controls, programming the radio presets to Top 40. It feels like ours. But we occasionally see the minivan parked in town. Behind the privacy glass, I imagine a car seat in there, and maybe a crumpled juice box on the floor. Even though I know these are feelings I am having "for" it, I hope the minivan is enjoying the fullness of a young family again.