Nothing remains constant. Nature goes from order to disorder. Or so Mr. Kilmore taught us in high school physics.
The bloom of youth always decays. The new becomes old. Soon, the clock spring cannot be rewound.
Even new cars are subject to the rule. In my case, though, the process was sped up a bit by being self-inflicted.
Backing through the gate of my courtyard is tricky. Almost like taking a Radiance class cruise ship through the Panama Canal. Inches on each side create a thin border between success and an insurance claim.
If I misjudge the distance, scrapes are my reward. In the three years of backing the Shiftless Escape through that gate, I suffered only one mishap. A small mark on the passenger side rear fender.
And, as of this week, I have an abrasion in the same spot on the New Escape. Of course, there will be more.
Wounds should be worn proudly. They remind us that we have stared entropy in the face -- and survived. Saber scars are merely reminders of adventures lived well.
And a reminder that we are still here. That matters.
Because there are still roads to be traveled in the Not-Quite-New Escape. I wonder if I can talk my brother into another road trip?
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