The Buick was trapped, rather mundanely, in the slushy ice pile by the side of the road outside my apartment this morning. I could feel the sadness in her spinning wheels. I wanted to say, “Listen, old girl. I know it’s rough, being you, deep into your silver years, constantly plastered in bumper stickers about being happy. You probably just want some rest now and then.” But there’s no way to console an object. And I really just wanted to get out of my parking space.