We’d been friends for 10 years when Harold told me he was dying.
Granted, Northern Virginia’s battered highways, repetitious stoplights, and erratic weather are tough on cars, but I didn’t expect Harold to give up so soon after we moved there. He kept bucking whenever we reached 60–70 miles per hour, and his check-engine light was on.
My thoughts weren’t: If this car dies, how the hell am I getting to work? Nor were they: How can I afford to fix this?
Rather, I thought: If this car dies, God damn I am going to miss it. Continue reading
