Topic: A Car

It was a bright red Plymouth Satellite. I don't remember what year, but it was a cool car. My dad bought it as a second family car before I was even old enough to drive. My mom drove it to work when she worked the night shift at the hospital. When she bought a new car, it was passed down to my brother.

Mark took the car in a new direction. He had the bottom of the car painted gray. He added something to make the car louder. I think they were called headers. I'm not sure how he sold these changes to our parents, but he always had a way of getting them to agree to almost anything.

There were rumors that he raced the car at a local racetrack. Rumors that turned out to be true. I never did see him race, but I know that I loved when he would drive me places in that car. Everyone stopped to look at us. The car was cool and by association, so were we.

I was thrilled when I was finally old enough to drive and I could get behind the wheel. It wasn't long after getting my driver's license that Mark joined the military. He went into the Army and was stationed in Germany, so I had the car to myself. I knew he loved that car, and so did I.

One Saturday afternoon, after dropping off some friends, I was on my way home. I was sitting at a stop light, looking down at my radio and deciding whether or not to change the station, when my face hit the steering wheel. I looked up into my rear view mirror to see what had happened. My mirror was facing the ceiling.

"Wow, someone must have been hit," I thought. It took me a few minutes to realize that I was the one who had been hit. I felt okay, so I got out and looked at the back of my car. It was smashed and something was leaking. The guy in the other car was bleeding a bit from his head. I told him that I was going to walk across the street to a deli to call the police-that was way before cell phones. After calling the police, the next call went to my dad who worked nearby.

It didn't take long for the police to arrive. The fluid that was leaking from my car was actually gas, so the fire department had to come to hose down the whole scene. Next came the tow truck. After information was exchanged, statements taken, a citation given, it was time to leave.

I got into the car with my dad. When I asked him how long he thought it would be until my car would be fixed, he told me that he didn't think it could be saved. That was when I started crying. Then I realized that I would have to break the news to Mark. He wouldn't be thrilled about it, that was for sure, even if the accident hadn't been my fault.

A few days later, after getting a neck brace for the whip lash from the collision, I began to write the long, sorrowful letter that would go overseas to the military base in Germany. The next time Mark would come home on leave, the car that he had loved and redefined would no longer be parked in the driveway.