Fallen angel – treachery on the way to mardi gras – I miss you. Melody Pan
Green Suburu (a reflection inside my sweaty palms) Pippa Berry It used to be my dad's. He let me sit in the front seat as a special treat when my legs were too short for the soles of my jelly sandals to touch the floor. Together, we would drive to hockey games in Southern Vermont, passing trees the same vivid shade as the car's exterior. My mom convinced him to let me drive it to school when I turned 16. She insisted on the "Student Driver" magnet on the back. "It'll be in good company on her campus," she told my dad. It's true that there are a few identical cars parked behind the library. I pass one just like mine on the mountain some mornings, the same make, model, and color. I wonder if its driver notices mine like I notice theirs. I've never been much of a car person. Once, someone asked me if I drive manual or automatic and I couldn't answer (95% sure its automatic). But still, when I heard the unmistakable crunch when it hit the back of the Blue Honda, I cried for my Green Subaru, the one that's never failed to take me where I need to go. 10
