Old Rocky.

The times I've seen, sitting here, alone in the world but for the children who climb into my seat and play racecar, or use me as a clubhouse for their rowdy routines. Many many years have passed since I last clung to the pavement, my tires skidding along under the influence of Marc, my very first driver.1

So many years, and many more drivers I've seen. It is, perhaps, sad, thinking about it now. I've outlived three of my old drivers, one of which passed in my seat, the act of turning a corner too fast in a race and rolling into a tree.2

But I've long since lost the taste of gas in my engine, my oil as long since passed through and driven itself out of me. My white paint is now brown and red, the color of dried blood, and flaking off of me. No one sees the beauty of which I once was, shining in the mid-afternoon sunlight. 3

Now I simply sit and wait once more. For what, I do not know. My life has long exceeded what most would consider feasible. But, oh, I was a wonderful car. Sturdy and reliable. I was the grandest of grand, in my own simple way. To relive those days again...4

A foot kicks my tire now. It falls off without resistance, but it is no matter to me. I view the young boy who glares at me, now.5

"What a piece of junk! You expect me to drive this?" he says arrogantly.6

"No, sonny," the old man says. "I expect you to help me fix him up. The old guy has seen some rough years. Then I expect you to drive him."7

"What is it about it that you like so much, Gramps?"8

The old man looked at the me and smiled reminicently. I recognized him through my wanderings. It couldn't possible be...could it?9

"You'll grow to love old Rocky, here," Marc said. "He was my first car. Best one I ever had. There'll never be another like him. Might as well keep him around a might longer."10