Goodbye, Friend

Today I lost one of my best friends.

We'd known each other for more years than I can count, but have been nearly inseparable for the last seven. So it broke my heart that this morning, softly, my car sputtered and passed away.

We met as children, when my grandparents bought LeBaron and drove around the island ensconced in the padded-velour interior. I sometimes rode along, but never dreamed that one day my Grandpa Wayne would send me to Virginia in that car.

LeBaron and I have been through a lot: Canadian goose attacks, cross-country road trips, highway racing with Rev. Jerry Falwell, cement posts, accidental break-ins, and a constant barrage of pseudo-compliments ("couch on wheels" sounds comfortable, but not sexy or fast). It's been an exciting friendship.

The first rumblings of trouble began two years ago. First, the rear view mirror fell off. We laughed, my car and I, about how we were getting older and our parts weren't what they used to be. But LeBaron was soon after diagnosed with a bad transmission. It was weeks before we knew she'd recover.

Ever since, we've carefully watched for signs of illness. It was as if we both knew that we were on borrowed time, and we had to make the most of it.

The terminal diagnosis came in May of this year, when the starter and cluster both gave out. The starter was an easy (though pricey) fix... but electronic clusters are nearly impossible to find. So though we navigated the same streets and routes as always, and I took special care of my poor car, LeBaron was fighting a losing battle.

And today, she breathed her last.

The official cause of death was a shredded belt and a bad tensioner, but the futile search for a cluster is what made her give up hope.

I will miss my car.