Taurus
Taps
Not
just a tap, as you can see, the car never had a chance. A truck hit it, but I suffered no alignment
damage or crushed frame. Like a stunt
woman in movies I don't like to view, my car spun on ice until it faced the
vehicle that impacted it. Another first:
facing north in a southbound lane, nose-to-nose with the truck that should be
behind me.
Poor
Taurus. You served us well. Even now in your deformity, you kick over and
labor forward. But no. You must rest now, as we harvest your still
beating innards to give automotive life to other Tauruses, even those who've
outlived your years. This is more
dignified than resurrecting you as a Frankenstein's monster car with stitched
skeleton and multi-colored panels.
Unlike the fiction, your compromised system is beyond endurance. Your resurrection would be brief and more
lethal.
We
stripped you of your magnets, CDs, Ezpass, camping chairs and other trunk
contents. And yes, even the simple
wooden cross that hung from the rearview mirror as I watched in horror the
truck bearing down on us. You may keep
the Mickey Mouse head antenna decoration fashioned into a soccer ball that has
weathered into a ping-pong ball. I no
longer need it to help me find you among the other blue Tauruses parked in the
ShopRite parking lot. I will
nevermore seek your comfortable, dependable body from other similar makes and
models.
Our
family mourns your youth, low mileage and neat upholstery. We can't replace those. Our brightest hope is another used Taurus
whose previous family hasn't abused it.
In
the end, all is rust. And to rust and the graveyard all Tauruses must go.
