There is a certain measure of responsibility that is passed down to the new owner of a car that comes with a name. For almost a year now Sue-Baru has carried me and my family safely wherever I wanted to go. Gripping her wheel through a downeaster, the roads barely visible or passable as I squint through the blowing snow, I encourage, “Sue, get me home.” I never thought I would talk to a car, but it hold similar weight to talking to plants. They both serve purposes and contribute to filling our lives.
This morning I dropped my brother off to church, parking in a little make-shift can barely be legal for handicapped accessibility. There was little space to back out and avoid the back side of Sue to be exposed to busy Route 1. My head repeatedly swiveled toward all sides to maintain safety. I inched back as to not catch her on the pink coping stone. Inch. Inch. Then I hit something. I looked back, looked in my mirrors, but could not identify what did not budge. With my apparently, not so careful maneuvering, I hit a fire hydrant causing a puncture wound in Sue’s bumper. My heart still aches for Sue. I am so sorry.