by Dr Rahim Said
Today, after 33 faithful years, I finally said goodbye to my first Mercedes — a car that was never just a car. It was a family member, a silent witness to our lives, and a keeper of memories.
It stood by us through thick and thin, like an old friend who never complained, even when life dented its doors or snapped off its side mirrors.
I bought it with money from a legal battle I had once fought — the case that not only gave me a golden handshake but also a chance to own what a TV ad back then called “Your Dream Car!”
I remember watching that commercial with our one-year-old son perched on my lap, the silver Mercedes flashing across the screen. It was my dream then, and for over three decades, it stayed one.
That car was more than metal and rubber. It was a workhorse, a holiday cruiser, a mobile concert hall, and on certain nights, a karaoke lounge on wheels.
It carried us as far north as the Thai border and as far south as Sentosa Island, Singapore — and many places in between.
From kindergarten drop-offs to high school graduations, it ferried our children through life’s milestones. It drove their grandparents to clinics, their uncle to his wedding, and even chaperoned our daughter on her first date, though she made us park a discreet distance away.
It survived seven different drivers, four or five minor mishaps, and a couple of missing side-view mirrors. We sang along to “I Did It My Way”, belted out Disney tunes and Phantom of the Opera numbers as we rolled down the highway, our voices louder than the engine and twice as out of tune.
And it wasn’t just us who cherished it. I still recall stopping by a sundry shop in a small town once when the shopkeeper rushed out, grinning ear to ear, “Boss! I struck a 4D lottery with your car number!” It wasn’t the only time our Mercedes brought unexpected fortune. That number seemed to have a habit of popping up every now and then.
Today, though, it was time. The old warrior had long earned its rest. As the tow truck slowly pulled away, a pang of sadness hit me. Nobody else from the family was around to witness the farewell.
Our children are overseas, and my wife is busy looking after her 102-plus years old dad, who in his younger days loved to take the car for a spin around the neighbourhood.
It felt like quietly sending off an old friend to a faraway home, like a silent funeral procession on its way to a forgotten cemetery.
But rather than dwell on the sorrow, I chose to remember the good — the road trips, the music, the laughter, and the countless memories sealed between those weathered seats.
Cars come and go, but this one stayed long enough to watch my children grow, love, succeed, and leave home. It lived a full life, and for that, I’m grateful.
Goodbye, old friend. Thanks for the ride.
WE