Death of A Minivan

It was doomed as soon as we signed the finance papers; the youngest daughter at the time was able to walk around the back without stooping in order to not bump her head. Over the course of time, I broke one of the sliding doors, the mechanic broke the other sliding door (long story), I busted a mirror, I broke a tail light, and the wife was sideswiped by a van full of unidentified hooligans who obviously lack the courtesy and skill necessary to drive on the road.

The abuse and neglect we’ve heaped on our minivan is shameful; and still we depend on it to shuttle us back and forth to obligations formal and informal. I guess it was giving us signs that it was done fighting the good fight a few years ago when using the left turn signal would make the right turn signal blink and vice versa. Still the minivan showed up and showed out for another year or two. It wasn’t until late last year that more serious signs of wear and tear began to show. All manner of liquid leaks and burns from the engine, and we’ve put several months worth of car notes into repairs that have barely prolonged the inevitable. The end is nigh, and all I can hope for is that the minivan goes peacefully. The scenario I prefer at the moment, is that I walk out Monday morning, turn the key and nothing. I drop my head, shake it just enough to let the disappointment fall from my forehead, and mutter to myself that’ll do pig, that’ll do.

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