When first we met, you were brand new with beige seats and a hatchback to fit all my stuff. The 8-track cassette deck I placed on your console, too expensive from the dealership, made us jump. You were my sports econo car slim enough to fit in small spaces, affordable, devoted, perfect for the daily commute to college. Who knew we would move to Syracuse?

I transferred in my second year and you graduated to a real roadster. The hills were long and steep, the snow and ice unmanageable but we weathered through. You liked the chains I put on your tires, they made you look tough, and when your starter was stubborn my friend Billy pushed us up the highest hill, racing down forcing air into your chambers, yanking the clutch as you came roaring back to life while I screamed with delight. Billy said you were a good car. We believed him.

Later, you and I moved to different states, got two speeding tickets, but no points, maybe that wasn’t a thing back then, and after I finished school we drove cross-country to Colorado, back-and-forth to Maryland back-and-forth to DC, wherever the wind would carry us. We were a pair of no-frills adventurers. We even made believe you were a stick shift, not a just lowly automatic, making vroom vroom sounds.

When we drove back to NYC after picking up my guy in Syracuse, someone broke into you and stole everything except the 8-track and left a thank you note. All my belongings gone but at least they left you. Your untimely demise came two years later. An unexpected joyride left you at the bottom of the Hudson, sunk, gasless, probably not good enough for parts. Broke my heart. The 8-track buried with you along with all my good tools.