Leslie

There is something very sad about waving goodbye to your first car.

Her name was Leslie. A '97 four door Hyundai Excel.

I remember the first time I ever laid eyes on her. Shiny, white - a little banged up thanks to my erratic Pop - but boy, she was all mine. Gaby and I used to sit in her frayed seats, listening to cassette tapes dreaming about the day I would get my license and we could escape to far off lands, like two criminals on the run.

Then I did get my license. Things had changed but I'd found other Bonnies and Clydes along the way, who delighted in hearing the unsure rumble of her engine. She was much more a friend than an automobile. She didn't start, the handles fell off, and there were dints from where I hit my best friend's fence... but no matter how much I dinged her up, and no matter how stubborn she was in return, she took me from A to B and everywhere inbetween with a charming purr and a knowing glint in her mirrors.

Unfortunately, today was the day. I sat perched in the front seat for a good forty five minutes, even nodding off for a while, until the wrecker arrived to snatch her away from me. She was hauled onto the back of the truck with dignity all in a matter of minutes - she disappeared down my street and that was that. The end of an era.

So I say R.I.P to you, Leslie. May you be just as beautiful in your second life as a hand rail or a cutlery set as you were my glorious first set of wheels.