The End of the Road

This must be the place where motor vehicles go to die.  Now, safely at their journey’s end, rusted, broken, open to the elements, all have come to the end of the road.  Big trucks, little trucks, container trucks, pick-up trucks, flatback trucks, motorcaravans, motorcycles, motorboats and motorcars. Occasionally two or three have been placed neatly side by side as if memories of a thousand parking lots linger on but the rest have been left to rot haphazardly where they fell. 

            Each has a tale to tell but there is no human ear to hear. The place is devoid of human presence for who would want to disturb this sacred place? This ancestral happy hunting ground for geriatric metal. Not all are old, however, some died a cruel death beaten into submission by bigger, stronger vehicles. The moment of collision imprinted on the once pristine bodywork while the unmistakable sound of metal meeting metal hangs forever in the air. Some died alone wrapped around a tree, some hard and fast against a bridge support or a Stop sign, their owners high, drunk or suicidal. Some have passed on peacefully their innards carefully stripped to bestow the gift of life to younger models.

            Tyres, tarpaulins, trailers, gas cans, windshields, mirrors, even tv aerials lie scattered like disinterred tomb artifacts, removed, but deemed of no financial value. Sometimes people do come to visit to bring another wreck but this graveyard will soon be full. Maybe they will start stacking the vehicles and their sacred objects one on top of the other. In the distance, perhaps two miles away, a church has been consecrated to Spread The Word, its tower bearing a large cross clearly visible.  An advertisement for God’s love and the promise of a life after death – Come, pray, find inner peace with Our Lord is the unspoken message.  In the centre of the vehicle graveyard is a truck with a different message painted on its side.  ‘WE BUY JUNK CARS.  720-275-1255.’            

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