I remem­ber Christie once telling me that she always want­ed to bring presents to some­one’s house at Christmas. We were wait­ing at the train sta­tion to Toronto, our exams fin­ished, doing exact­ly that. Carrying bags with a fon­due set, maybe a can­dle hold­er, and oth­er assort­ed mis­cel­lany for my par­ents who already had every­thing.

As a sev­en­teen-year-old with an adorable baby-face, she was rarely tak­en seri­ous­ly as a mature and respon­si­ble per­son. I could tell that hav­ing this hol­i­day tra­di­tion was her way of feel­ing like an adult. Not the gro­cery shop­ping we would do, not the lin­gerie she would wear for me, or even the act of love itself, but a fam­i­ly to go to, gifts to give, a house to stay in, a lit­tle piece of matu­ri­ty.

For me, it’s this car.

Not the bills. Not the house. Not the mort­gage.

It’s being able to get any­where. It’s feel­ing these keys in my pock­et and know­ing that they’re mine. It’s dri­ving home after class when it’s dark out, blast­ing a night mix on the stereo. It’s even look­ing for a park­ing spot down­town on a Monday after­noon, or get­ting stuck in traf­fic.

It’s hav­ing all these things that I’ve nev­er had before.