I develop a weird attachment to cars. Even to ones I dislike. Not that I disliked this one. Meet the Pontiac Sunfire, that I have nearly always referred to as the Spitfire. I don't normally christen vehicles with a nickname but I mistakenly uttered Spitfire early on and forever after struggled to call it by its real name. It was Michael's car. When he and Liz moved to Seattle, the Spitfire came to live with us and Reid has used it for his work, errand, and other evil purposes. It had been cranky about starting this winter so nearly three weeks ago Reid drove it to the shop. A couple of days later we got the diagnosis. It was code for waaaay too much money to put into a car of this age and general condition. I only drove it one time, the approximately half a mile from the parking lot at M&L's to my driveway. But I did ride shotgun a number of times with one of my sons at the wheel and I will remember those times fondly. Today I picked up the license plates and handed over the spare key and said goodbye. No, I didn't cry. Isn't it cute?
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