The car I drove was a twelve-year-old silver sedan. It was not beautiful, but I maintained it carefully. It had carried groceries, garden soil, grandchildren, and my late second husband, Amos, through the last year of his life.
Amos had been patient and practical. He never tried to take over my life after we married. Instead, he stood beside me while I learned that accepting love was not the same as becoming dependent.
He had been gone nine years, but I still kept his small tape measure in my purse.
On Monday afternoon, my car began to shake while I waited at a traffic light.
The check-engine light blinked once, then stayed on.
Nell was sitting in the back seat, telling me about a classmate who had eaten glue during art class.
“Grandma,” she said when the car shuddered again, “I think your car has the hiccups.”
“Something like that.”
“Is it going to explode?”
“No.”
