I am so drawn to the old and rusted like a bug to the bare and hot burning bulb. The evocative pull of the patina, the charming songs they sing of their fairy~tale last lives. Some may say I’m a dreamer, a romanticist, and I guess they are right. Hook, line and sinker impossibly cast under the spell.
In my minds eye I see the stories lived in this old car. I like the vision of young Italian lovers weaving and navigating the streets of Rome looking for the first exit out of town to a place of hot quiet. Or perhaps a baker man delivering his daily offerings winding and bobbing about the impossibly narrow and crowded cobblestone pathways to sell his wares. Smoke a hanging from his lips, hands on the horn more often than not, thunderous music shaking the interior. Expletives hurled from the window.
If the seats could only talk. Their tales would be tall and mighty, maybe a tad sorrowful at times, I hope for more happy moments than not of course . Perhaps if we listen though, listen lightly with wide open minds, they may whisper a small secret or two to us.