to gypsy.

I didn't want it to end like this.

I knew my car was old, and I could tell that she was showing her age. A little less pep, a little more noise. Things had been replaced and other things had been allowed to limp along. I knew the time would come when I would have to let her go.

I had to give her a lot of oil. If I had been a good friend, I would have done it every week, because that was probably how often she needed it. But I was not a good friend, so I did it when I thought of it. I usually thought of it when the dipstick showed the level was south of low. This is why cars should talk, so mine could have said, "Hey, uh, I, uh, could use some oil? You know? When you get a minute?" Because Gypsy, my little Corolla, was not one to complain. Gypsy was, above all, a trooper.

I don't know that it was the oil. When she suddenly stopped responding, like losing your cell phone signal in the middle of a conversation, she was out of oil. But the mechanic said it was the wiring. There was a short, which caused some overheating, which caused some melting and just general frying. He fixed one wire, only to find out that they were all extra tasty crispy. He offered to fix it, but told me that if I had the finances, it might be time to move on. When someone tells you it's a better course of action to let the car go than to pay him $1400, you should probably listen. He couldn't say for sure what had caused the short. It could have been the lack of oil, a situation caused by me, the bad owner.

I started thinking about replacements, realizing that previously, when I had thought about letting Gypsy go, I had always assumed she would still be running somehow. Running, but maybe not well enough to be my primary vehicle anymore. I'd assumed I'd be able to sell her to someone else who could get to know her. I had hoped it would be like deciding to put down an old cat. This was like having an old cat get run over and then having to shoot it myself. In all likelihood, Gypsy will go to a junkyard, where she will live on as spart parts. A mirror here, a door there, but not a wiring harness anywhere, because dude, that thing was fried.

Is there a place where old cars go? A place where they might be allowed to frolic in the places they loved best? Would Gypsy go to the mountains, where she could once again pass the Buicks? Maybe she would go back to the late night drives on back roads. Or would she prefer a long stretch of highway on a sunny day, her radio volume turned up to 11? Gypsy loved to rock out with her exhaust out.

I was feeling pretty rotten Friday night, knowing that I had killed a good friend who had gotten me from countless points A to countless other points B. But then I continued in my ridiculous pattern of anthropomorphizing my motor vehicle and decided that she knew me well enough to understand that I was forgetful and slack and stupid, and she loved me anyway. Gypsy didn't think that 160,000 miles of passing Buicks and backroads on clear nights and sunny interstates was anything to be sad about.