Forborne Tears

Buried in the shadows of the night, its tires shine. The dark graphite metallic exterior of the car’s long-wheelbase form glistens beneath the streetlights. Rain runs through subtle valleys in the pavement, amassing into miniature streams alongside roadways before uniting in an extensive maze of underground channels. Prone, a man comes to and lifts his face from the abrasive parking lot. The car stands perched on its four wheels, offering no acknowledgment, no assistance. Time has announced the inevitable. Numb below the waist, something warm dripping from his forehead, the man crawls, as if to race his final minutes. Just out of reach, the car, his legacy, his dearest friend, is quiet, absentminded. This rain is a lifetime of forborne tears. All he has to do is climb inside and switch on the wipers. They’ll wash away the pain, help him see, again. With a fervent groan, the man grasps the door handle and swings it open before collapsing once more into a welcoming puddle. Looking up from his resting place, the man stares at a branded key fob dangling from the ignition. A high-pitched beeping mutes all other sounds. Finally, the car speaks, crying over the despair of its owner, sobbing that it can’t be driven, just once more. Or is it laughing? The man turns his head and sees a figure in the distance, a person running, towards him … how odd. At ease, he understands.