Ten years ago, the silver paint had already been baked grey by the southwestern sun and scrubbed dull by the sand in the wind. My first car was a Honda Civic, plain and unassuming, but in my eyes, it was an argent chariot, thrumming with the discovery of new songs and new friends. It drank gasoline when I could afford it, and when all I could feed it was whispers into the black-hot, sun-gorged dashboard, it found a way to make do.

It was our social circulatory system, carrying us to nights we thought we’d have more of. We’d gather round the gas pump and turn our money into a promise; that whenever we needed to be together, the car with black, replacement bumpers, two sizes too small for its driver would reunite us. Every scratch on it was a battle scar, every stain was war paint. It held the scents of birthday cakes and midnight air and too many friends packed in one car. It was proof that we existed, that we loved each other.

The death wound came fast and bled slow. An empty section of sidewalk, riddled with cracks and a crushing vacuum in the shape of a Japanese sedan. It was found a week later, the air conditioning and radio broken but not stolen. Crushed lungs and a yanked-out tongue, and nothing to gain from it. It still had its pride however, and in a way my betrayal was worse. A mighty steed, wounded in the night then sold for a pittance. I was moving away, and I wouldn’t know if this magnificent machine would ever drive some other lucky soul to their first kiss, or if it would molder in a junkyard, or be destroyed entirely.

                                                                  

EVAN SANFORD is a junior pursuing a degree in English.