When the Familiar Departs

There was an old car I bought
cheap when I was young. I became so familiar
with her burgundy interior and exterior,
the way her speedometer never could
make up its mind, the strange tacky residue
on her steering wheel that appeared
when the weather was warm. 

Forget-me-not.
I remember the times I air-drummed

rock tunes buzzing on her two speaker stereo–
arms swinging, teeth gritted–
all the pedestrians looked at me in wonder.

I remember trips to the beach and the city.
We barreled down highways–
windows open, the warm summer air
rushing through her cab like streams of silk.
Nothing could recapture that night
when the moon and the cloudless sky
reflected on a mirror still lake
as we glided by in perfect silence,
perfect peace. Inevitably the day came
when her old, broken body was beyond
my ability to fix. She finished her years waiting
in front of my house, patient, proud
in the memory of your youth. And then finally
she was gone, carted away by a tow-truck
while I was out. Only a silent footprint of dirt
and debris was left where she once stood–
the place the street sweeper couldn't reach.

I remember the first day as clear as the last:
as suddenly as she came, she left.
I wonder about all the days in between,
when it seemed we were eternal
and time was never running out.