My Beloved

We were together for a very long time, seven and a half years to be exact. However, I thought we'd be together longer; I thought there would never be a time we would part. I was with my beloved through most of my high school years. My beloved was faithful to me, following me to college, and even staying with me through my graduate education. Every afternoon my beloved would patiently wait for me after school, his body gleaming palely in the afternoon sun, ready to accompany me home.

There were times I was very cruel to my beloved, called him horrible and nasty names. It makes me cringe to think about it, but there are times I resorted to physical violence; I must admit I punched and slapped a few times. I was intolerant of my beloved's illness because it forced me to rearrange my plans. I didn't hesitate to tell others he was temperamental, messy, a bit undependable. I could be demanding, difficult, neglectful. I probably wasn't grateful enough for everything my beloved did for me.

Last month I knew our time together was drawing to a close. I felt him tremble as he moved, heard his protesting groans, saw the sad disarray he had fallen into. There was no mistaking his death rattle, and I knew the end was nigh upon us. I patted him softly and thought about the good times we'd had together, the crazy places we'd been, the wild nights out, our close calls and our smashups. As I thought about these things, I knew for certain: I will never ever have another car as good to me as the '95 Pontiac Grand Am.



Dude, I just realized it's Valentine's Day, and I've written an ode of sorts to my car. This is not good. At least I don't think so.