Every year on the day my father died, I get my car washed at a beloved Bay Area spot. Turning off El Camino Real in Mountain View, I pull into Lozano Brushless Car Wash. When we used to enter the forest green girders of this mid-century modern space-agey car wash, my father was present, wholly mine for a magical half hour.
As an adult, I kept this ritual: I drive up to the attendant and ask for a full-service wash and vacuum. She hands me a ticket and while I wait for the row of cars ahead, my muscle memory takes over: roll up the windows, cram any loose bobby pins and pens into my purse, check the windows again, pop the trunk. I turn off the radio blaring the classic oldies my father used to play when he was the driver and I his joyful passenger, trusting of wherever he would take me.
