I'm too sad to come up with a new, original post.
Our beloved Putty, 16 years old, Pontiac of our dreams, has died a sad death.
Though we knew he was elderly, we held on to hope. He was fine yesterday. When I took the girls out to lunch to celebrate the end of our school year, he was great. More than great. He zipped into town, whipped into a parking spot and waited patiently for us as we sipped Italian soda, spiced chai tea and mango smoothies. He then happily transported us to the library and again waited ever so patiently as we perused the book sale and spent too much money on books because "They're only fifty cents!"
But, when we left the library, we knew immediately that something was amiss. Betsy was the first to voice concern:
"What is wrong with this car?! He's bouncing or something!"
"Ummm," I said, "yeah ... but maybe no more than usual. Putty's just kind of bouncy." But I knew. Deep down, I knew.
We started home.
We started home six times. He faded into unconsciousness six times. We were able to revive him each time, but I knew the prognosis was dismal. I feared the worst.
And today, the news came.
"I think it's time to call the mortician," said our mechanic, Jeff (of course, you know you're already in trouble, don't you, when you're on a first-name basis with your mechanic and he's on your speed dial.)
My heart sank, but I tried to be brave. There were children in the room, after all.
"Okay, Jeff. Thank you. I'll tell Atticus .... " My breath caught in my throat. "We'll get back to you."
"Okay," said Jeff, with such sincere sympathy in his voice. He knows. Oh, how he knows the love one can have for a car named Putty. All 227,000 miles of him.
And so, tonight, I can only rerun my ode to Putty, composed about six months ago, after a near-miss. Little did we know then just how short with him was our time. Oh, what I would give to have him sent home untreated again.
But, he will not come home. Alas, poor Putty. May he rest in peace. And may our new car payment be a small one.
Putty is fifteen
and he is tired.
He flashes frightening lights at me
in an effort to get my attention.
I drop him at the local clinic
only to have him sent home,
the equivalent of taking
my sick child to the doctor
and being told
she needs only some rest.
I want him medicated
I want him for another fifteen years
(I love him so)
but know that I may
(one day soon?)
have to let him go.
Alas, poor Putty ...
a car of most infinite jest
most excellent fancy.
He has borne me on his back
a thousand times.
May it be a thousand more.
His flashing light may not
be the end?
For where there is light
there is hope.
The entire Poetry Friday round-up is at Findings.
(Updated at 8:44 a.m.: Despite my sad, self-pitying post, I know that Poetry Friday will lift my spirits. Do visit Findings at the above link for Writer2b's lovely post about mothers who read aloud.)