by Marcia F. Brown When I look at the old car backed into the cleared-out space in the shed, I can almost understand those bewildered men who leave their softening wives in middle age, up- and-walk-out after decades of marriage and family, to take up with some buffed and waxed young thing with great lines, horsepower to burn and a dazzling array of untested equipment. When I look at the old car's headlights, dulled with disuse and staring at me, as if to say, What did I ever do? Wasn't I always good to you? Turned over every morning, rain or snow to start your day? Kept you safe all these years, mile after mile? And I'm filled with guilt and say with feeling You're absolutely right. You were the best. There'll never be another you, as I glance surreptitiously at my cute new model sitting in the old car's space in the garage and explain, You just got old. You're falling apart. And besides, I say, I've fallen in love. We're already living together. And the old car looks like it might be wired to explode. So I walk across the yard and look at the new car, and it occurs to me that before too long the new car will be old, the suspension will sag and things will fall off. And like the lout who'll use up his young fling and want to trade in again, we'll deny that we've put on some miles ourselves, dump this one in the shed and go shopping -- until someone lays a firm hand on our arm and says Enough. You just can't drive any more. Photo Credit: Old Car In Old Garage