I suppose I should have seen this coming. I’d traded cars with a friend for an afternoon. Just a logistics problem, really. When I got the phone call, I knew what he was about to say. Bad news first.

It doesn’t take much to total an old car. You factor in its mileage verses its age. You look at the shape the body’s in. Is there rust? Has the paint faded from its original color? Does the interior—red and velvet—still hold its innocence? If the price of the damage outweighs the calculated worth, your car is totaled. In my case, $2000 was the magic number.

And I’d been happy with that. That was, of course, until I cleared my belongings out of it, sitting in the driver’s seat bewildered, sitting—wet with tears—in the overwhelming sadness.

It was just an old Buick. Just a thing. Just a fucking thing. My first car. The car that taught me to sing. Where you’d leave me your handwritten notes. High school parking lots and drivers ed. Hockey games and yearbook. Dads and grandpas. Fredrick’s farm and the stars. All the countless little stars. Our first kisses. Our first broken curfews. Misadventure and adventure just the same. Allie and the endless winters. Every 2 hours just to see you. Driving through on a Wednesday. The dearest of the dear, and all the fucking deer. Tightened corners and spilled soda. First jobs and first headaches. Near misses and nearer salvation. Freedom, Deliverance, Delivery, Whatever.

Totaled.