You told me you bought the moped to take the boys for rides. That was your excuse to buy it, the one that made sense and was logical.  I know the real reason you bought it.  When you lived in Hawaii that was your vehicle over there.   I remember the stories you told me of how you felt free riding it all around the island. 

You could go wherever you wanted whenever you wanted.  It was small and compact, cheap to buy, to run and to fill up with gas.  It was perfect for that place. You lived your dream there and that moped was part of that dream for you. 

I know why you really bought it, for nostalgia, to remember your days in Hawaii riding a moped all over the island.  The feelings you felt when you rode that moped, that’s what you were looking for.  The freedom, the happiness, and the buzz you got whenever you drove it.  You loved that. Those are good stories and good memories.

Those are the memories that impact me, my life, and our boys.  The boys would love a ride on this moped with dad.  I remember those days in the summer when you’d fire up the moped. The moment they heard it turn on in the garage, little feet would come running!  I want to go for a ride dad!  They’d holler with excitement.

The memories of you taking the boys around the neighborhood prick my heart.  Each little boy eagerly anticipated his turn.  They’d wait actively on the grass, bouncing as if they had ants in their pants watching the road, waiting for daddy to come around the corner signifying it was the next turn.  I remember how their eyes would be glued to the road while their little bodies fidgeted with excitement, waiting for you to appear. 

You never registered it, because you never drove it anywhere besides the roads within half a mile of our house.  It wasn’t for any practical reason you wanted it.  You wanted to remember Hawaii and so when you wanted to feel that, you’d grab one of the boys. After 5 minutes you’d have your fix, but you’d also given the gift of a daddy-son moment. In the form of living a memory of yours you created one for our sons too.  A ride around the block is all it took. This toy did that and was so worth it, those memories are priceless now. They loved that.

Now it sits in the garage.  It won’t turn on.  It’s still not registered.  I think the battery is dead and it’s got an ignition problem.  The keys dangle longingly from the ignition.  As I look at them hang there, it is almost as if they would talk. They’d ask, to please turn on the moped, bring it back to life.  The next thought, there’s no life to bring you back for. There’s no life to turn those keys and give another ride, unless I do that. 

Do I want to do that?  I think of the long list of things I’d have to do to make that happen.  Load it on a truck, take it somewhere with someone that could look at it, wait, pay for it, come pick it up.  How would I do all that?  Then once it did work, I’d have to get on it.  I’d have to learn to drive it.  I’d have to turn the keys, press the accelerator and pray I don’t crash it.  

I think, what if I did?  Then I think, what if I got hurt?  How would that impact the boys, if I were hurt or incapacitated?  They’d suffer, they already have.  All this goes through my mind as I think about how if they were to get a ride on it again, it would be me to do all this.

I’m not up for all that yet.  So it sits.  The seat is dusty.  I haven’t driven it.  No, not without you Grant.  I don’t know what to do with it.  I don’t really want to sell it.  I don’t want to keep it.  It doesn’t work, so I can’t even try it to see if maybe I could change my mind about driving it to give the boys rides.  Could I do it?  I don’t know yet, so it just sits there.