Adiós, '93 Honda

You were a good car. Your trunk leaked, and only a few days ago did I finally figure out the trick to closing your hood completely, but you were reliable. You always prompted mechanics to ask "Is this car from the Midwest or something?" with your rusty exhaust system, but those same rusty pipes always let my dog know I was coming, so she would get off my bed and pretend like she'd been sitting quietly on the floor the whole time I was gone. Your antenna didn't go all the way up, so only when I drove a friend's car for a few days did I discover that the Bay Area had about 10 times as many radio stations as I'd been listening to, and it made a funny thwapping noise, but my nephew called that antenna "Auntie Sara's an-tuna" and others referred to it as the seal in my trunk slapping its tail. You can't create comedy like that.

Apparently your clutch was loose, but I didn't notice, just like I didn't care that you only played tapes, because where else was I going to listen to all those mix tapes my friends made me in high school and college? Once your fuel gauge dropped below a quarter of a tank it was completely unreliable, but when it comes to testing an almost-empty tank I'm as conservative as Dick Cheney, so that didn't really bother me. You had a half-moon scratch in your windshield because one of my wiper blades got misaligned and I didn't notice for months because I didn't wash you very often, but that just gave you character, like a funky tattoo. You sported a John Kerry bumper sticker until you got stolen and the bastards who stole you ripped it off and also left their shoes and Subway wrappers in the back seat. So when you were recovered a few hours later with only a busted ignition I put a KALX sticker on you. You got me to Oregon and L.A. and Wisconsin and strange little towns in Nebraska and up the steep hills of San Francisco and through the jutted back roads of Point Reyes and Solon Springs.

You were a pillar among cars. You will be missed.