Peering over my shoulder, looking ahead left, right and behind, I backed up. Slowly. As I swung out of the small handicapped parking place (illegal, I am sure) my attention was on a series of granite coping stones that I would narrowly miss if I cut the wheel just right. In order to avoid the rock wall, the rear of my car swung, hugging the edge of busy Route 1. It was a tight squeeze, yet I negotiated the vehicle away from dangers to the right and left. I had not calculated the fact that someone would place a fire hydrant at the entrance of a parking lot or busy street. The immovable object hugging low to the ground was not visible in my mirrors nor by looking over either shoulder. For the first time since owning “Sue”, I could report damage. Driving to the coffee shop, my intended next stop, I found myself shaking. “It just pierced the bumper,” I thought. It was a tiny scar, but I could not shake my feeling of sadness. Not being particularly materialistic, I started laughing; it was all so absurd. Later, peering into my large cup of latte, my stomach twisted. I didn’t get hurt, but “Sue” did I lamented over and over.
More than a year ago, I purchased “Sue” from a friend. “Sue” Baru was how she introduced me to the vehicle. This car carried her through divorce and bouts with cancer. “Sue” was steady and reliable.
I just bought a brand new car. It is spacious, shiny and runs on battery. I can’t let go of “Sue”. Fielding questions about her mechanical status from Craigslist, I wonder if I can let her go. She is old, and yes she needs some work, but she has plenty of life left. Is this reality or a fabrication of owning a 2001 car named Sue? I feel like I am turning my back on an old reliable friend. Meanwhile “Sue” sits in my yard. Waiting. For her fate.