Green you were. Not Ohio green, but New Mexico green. Piñon green. I drove you everywhere. On mountain roads, and city highways. Other drivers admiring your compact shape, nice lines, with the minimum of classy chrome. What a great little car you were. Yes, you were the great, great, grandson of the Model T. He, who replaced the Majestic Horse.
Eventually, you took me all the way to Denver. I loaned you out to friends who drove you around the city, parked you, but never paid the parking fines. You disappeared one day, and I went looking for you. I finally found you on a lonely Denver street, tied to a Denver boot. A sad sight. The strip gangs had already been there too. The vultures had smelled death. They had taken everything they could remove. All that was left was a shell of what you were once. I cried. I remembered all the trips we took together. You never asked for much; just a little maintenance once in a while. There was nothing left. As I stood there in tears and bewildered about what to do, a city wrecker stopped by, and proceeded to remove the wreckage that was left. I told the driver, “That little ’52 Ford was mine some time ago.” He also mentioned there were several hundred dollars’ worth of parking fines against it, and there was nothing of value left.
I wanted something from your wrecked body to remember you by. I asked if I could take the bumper guard with me. He laughed and agreed to remove it for me. He left carrying the mangled ‘52 Ford friend of mine.
There I stood on Arapaho Street, holding a bumper guard. But as I turned it around, it resembled a silver horse. I recalled that the Arapaho, the Indian Tribe, were great horsemen and great buffalo hunters. Now they are gone, like the buffalo and like you, my ’52 Ford. But look at what is left. There you are, proud again, and looking like the shining horse you once replaced.