I have you to thank for a lot of things. Though at times you fail me, snap a belt or blow a tire going 68 as I glide to the side of an icy highway. At times you let me down. But more than that, you build me up. For six years, you’ve caressed me with your bucket seats, ticked my neck with the wind you let rush in from the windows, lull me to relaxation with the hum of your engine. For six years, you’ve let me wax around your rust, kiss your steering wheel ritualistically every time we say goodbye, every time we hit a bump. Since the day I handed over $900 for you, my little Prelude, I’ve been in love. You’re ten years older than me, but age is no barrier when it comes to friends like these. Together we’ve driven through Ohio, Indiana, Michigan, and Wisconsin. Together we’ll drive everywhere else we can reach. I will pour oil into you, buy you fuel, and with my own hands I’ll replace your breaks, your tires, your anything, just like I did your transmission, your wheel bearings, your axle years before. There’s something about your smell, a mingle of regular 87 and power steering fluid and all the places we’ve been, that makes you the most important thing to me. I can hear you breathe, feel your heartbeat. I love when you sing back to me on our road trips, how your engine revs when I first start you up. Something about the color of your paint, red 51, gives me hope. You’re the reason I don’t drive off the road. I couldn’t bear to see you hurt.