Saturday, 10 September 2011


The final drive was painful as memories flooded my mind.

After all, we had shared so much over the years; adventure, ecstasy … and yes, sometimes fury. Age had crept up stealthily, with joints creaking and the smoking getting worse, yet these symptoms did not in the end cause  her death.

Seduced in my youth by her smooth Italian looks and exuberant character, I was in love from that first embrace. Smitten, I still abused her generosity terribly, attending to her real needs only when she complained. She might have lasted longer if not for my neglect, but it was now too late; my regrets meant nothing. With the cancer taking a terminal hold, there was nothing more to be done.

Every potion and remedy had been applied in the desperate hope of prolonging her life but to no avail. Her mind was still sharp but the shell of her body had rotted and died from that terrible blight, terminal rust. The curse and death sentence of all early Italian made cars.

(PS The above picture is not mine and I have no idea who the author is!)

1 comment:

  1. Heh. Ah, Peter, speaking of rusty, I do wish you'd add a subscribe-by-email plugin for those of us boomers with failing memories. This friend did, and her site is blogger-based: Now she's a REAL Alaskan and definitely not rusty, still rope climbing. Course, she's younger than we are.
    I haven't forgotten you, my friend with the wretched ticker. I just forget to visit.