Driving home from dinner on the peninsula through a very soft rain, nearing my house, I happened to glance at the odometer just as my car reached its 111,111th mile traveled.
That in a little over eight years, or a bit under 14,000 per year or almost 40 miles per day.
If my car could talk the stories it would tell would include a number of memorable road trips, many driving lessons, trips to meet new grandchildren, new girlfriends, new employers.
Last trips with girlfriends, trips to funerals, trips home after being laid off.
Many laughs, some fights, a few tears.
The voices of children growing up and of adults growing old. The voices of some no longer with us,
Trips home after great sports triumphs and trips home after bitter losses. Stories of happiness and stories of heartache.
Through it all, the old car lumbers on, silent, keeping whatever secrets it holds in confidence, Only the driver knows...and remembers all.
-30-
2 comments:
see what I mean about lines which could flow into a novel? Here is yet another one--
Through it all, the old car lumbers on, silent, keeping whatever secrets it holds in confidence, Only the driver knows...and remembers all.
Your words are beautifully effortless. If I only could write half as well- I would be so happy.
rushing through my comments this morning- hope my last one made it through- if not, quick recap- you write wonderfully!! (if it made it through, just delete this one)
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