Ich und Auto

To my loving car,

As we enter our final months together, the terminal stage of a seven year involvement, I find it necessary to explain myself to you. I understand that this is a wholly self-serving enterprise. You will not understand me, and my desire to confess my sins against you is a recent urge—one born from the revelation that the nature of our relationship has always been one of abuse. If I can offer you nothing else, I can at least explain myself.

Like a battered housewife, you accepted my abuses as price and proof of love. And all the while what I felt for you was anything but love, or love as it should be—that which embraces and cherishes the endness of the other. Instead, I offered you an instrumental affection—that which enjoys the fruits of the other’s efforts without acknowledging the source of those efforts. That is, you loved me as myself, and I loved you as your work.

I never sought to understand the intricacies of your mechanism, and learned only what I needed so as to fix you when I pushed your parts beyond their capacities. I will not deceive myself with the flattery that, by testing your limits, I allowed you greater understanding and a wider self-concept. You may have gained both through my tyranny, but such was never my intention. Always, I used the elasticity of your love against you. When your engine burned for oil, I did not check it and would not replace it. I knew that you would expend your entire being to take me where I wanted to go, so why bother?

Even now, your illnesses need not be terminal. Brake pads and rotors could be replaced, fuel injectors cleansed, and your engine repaired. I will, however, take no action. After seven years, my wanderlust aroused, I seek a replacement—a new victim, whose devotion and adoration I can exploit into a new decade. At best, I might keep you on in case of emergencies. You will sit, alone amid the detritus of the Collins Corner Cat Ranch, waiting for my return. In all likelihood, I will never come.

I now know what I’ve done to you. I understand the wages of an attitude that sees only means and no end in the other. Because I see my worst self mirrored so clearly in your windshield, I have rejected you. I understand these things. But understanding does not produce change. Change is an act of will, and I continue to be the weaker vessel. At best, I might share in your suffering—might attempt moments of genuine compassion when I feel your shuddering, pained vibrations, might take my turns with less force and speed, might brake with less urgency. I hope I can be gentle. I hope we can share a moment’s grace.

Perhaps more than that, I can offer you the phrase that you have always vainly longed to hear:

Allons-y,

Wes