First Taste of Freedom

When she gave out halfway to my destination, I knew the old car was ready for the junkyard. I pulled her into the backyard, took off the plates, and there she sat.

She looked so sad and unwanted as the season’s new snow drifted across her lifeless body. With great sadness in my heart, I often found myself gazing out the window at her buried form, reminiscing of the past. She had become a symbol of my youthful dreams and teenage desires. Under that blanket of snow lay, at times, my lone ally.

With her key in my hand, I was master of my own destiny, captain of my soul. We’d weathered countless trips to the mall, delivered my best friend to her wedding–and a divorce lawyer, and together we survived one il fated trip out of town–when I couldn’t say no to a guy.

It seemed inhumane, callous even, to have taken all I could from her, then when her usefulness had diminished, discard her as one would an old shoe. She seemed so lonely, so despondent, I had to go outside to see her one last time.

I brushed the snow aside and climbed inside. The rush of emotions caught me off guard as memories drifted back. Realizing this would be the last time I would sit behind her wheeI, I closed my eyes. It was the final end, and I whispered a silent goodbye to a faithful friend.

marie malo