It's a whisper. A vague recollection of that time when her face swept by with each passing street sign and there wasn't a day gone by that I didn't think of her.
It's a feeling like running out of gas on one of those straight basin highways past the mountains. Nothing but flat land and distant snow-capped backdrops in every direction. And the check gauge light is on and the gas needle's resting in the red. The end of this bittersweet ride's coming. Of that I'm logically certain. But that doesn't stop me from patting her on the dashboard and whispering, "Oh, we'll make it old gal."
It's just a whisper. A hope. A wishful thought of endurance. But a car needs fuel to run, and soon enough the time comes, and although my foot's still pushed to the floor, the speedometer begins to decelerate, and the old gal's slipping despite wistful thoughts and whispers and hopes. A cold bead of dread comes through my pores now. And another and another.
70... 65... 55... 40...
"We've been sippin' on fumes too long my love." But there's no answer. There never has been, has there.
20... 15... 10...
Reality flickers. I see the dime on the road that we're to stop on, where this ride goes no further, and I wish the sensation wasn't so numbing. Do I sit and wait? No. Life's too fleeting for such follies. She's let me go, and I'll leave her behind. How it's off towards that peaky horizon, and I don't know what to do.
Shoulda filled her up when I had the chance. It's just those five-year tanks are always so hard to gauge. Yeah, the light was on, but who knows for how long. I always think we're gonna make it to the next station. But now I squint and bring my hand above my eyes against the sun's glare. There's not a station in sight to be seen. Not even the miraging heat offers any glint. There's nothing. It's over. It's been through for a hundred years now, a hundred miles, and I've just been dreaming I guess.
