wheels

I am sitting with my chin in my hands and thinking that I probably handled this wrong. I address this to the half empty bag of Reese's cups and the pizza crusts. You were the wrong salve. The right salve was flat on my back on my bed and Mozart and I did get there. But anyway, a car is a car, and as much as I have loved my tiny silver one, I shouldn't be surprised when its age and northern heritage catch up to it and the mechanic writes in bold ink on the bill SAFETY ISSUE: DANGEROUS TO DRIVE, and then traces this statement in highlighter--as if I'd forget his warning. The short stick of it is that I don't have the money to trade up, or over, or even down and probably won't for some time. I am chronically short of funds. But the long stick of it is that I can indeed live my life pretty damn well without a car--I have biked and walked the miles across town for work for years, I have a grocery store just up the hill, I have a free city bus pass, and I have a lover with a car like a chariot who always promises to come when I need him. And just last weekend I learned that I am indeed capable of biking the twelve miles out to my parents' house, and not having a car to drive at the time that my mom is having surgery to scoop out the rest of the cancer will certainly not stop me from getting to their house of my own steam if I need to, and I won't, you know, I won't have to, because even without a motor of my own, I am not alone.