My car, my sweet car…has been making a low, rumbly sound when I accelerate. Over time, the noise has become noisier. I keep turning the radio up, but the rumbling is fiercely competitive. I think I need a new stereo.
My car, my sweet car…is white. It attracts these small flies. The flies do not bite and they do not buzz. They do make the children shriek and scream. I think I need a new paint job. Lime green or sunshine yellow or the color of whispers and congeniality.
My car, my sweet car…has a lazy right side. The electric window will not go down, no matter how many times I press the button. The right window will go down just fine, but will not slide back up if it comes in contact with any precipitation. I think I need a sunroof, so I can throw the toll bridge tokens out from the top.
My car, my sweet car…is strewn with half-finished art projects, CDs without cases, comic books, baby dolls, and pens. My God, the pens. If ever I owned a pen, it is now hidden in the crevices of the car seats and the cushions. And probably dried up. I think I need a live-in car maid. And some new pens.
My car, my sweet car…has a Minnesota-sized mosquito squished into the driver’s side windshield. It reminds me that I took its life without thinking, only with squishing. It was probably just looking for a way out. Or my blood. I think I need a better bug attitude.
My car, my sweet car…was my father’s before it was mine, and that is why I love it, with all its quirks and irks. Somewhere beneath the ever-increasing rumbling, my car is full of the memories of adolescence. My sweet car.