It was my Donna car, a crocus-yellow Corvair, bought with fry-cook money in 1972, who — sorry, Dion — was most definitely not Prima.
Come to think of it, neither was Sharon, a 1960 Chevrolet Impala, a gift from my father, who bought her for $95 in 1968.
Sharon was my high school girlfriend, and Donna arrived in college. I was lucky to know them. Thankfully, each lasted longer than their namesake to help tutor this clueless boyfriend. I hope life has been good to them.
Yesterday, on a walk, I spotted Donna, who looked not a day over 60. Some angel put her back together.
The accident wasn’t my fault.
It was a snowy morning, and the other guy drifted into our lane at the intersection of Locust and Bridge.
Her front hood hinges held, as did the lap seatbelts for my brothers and me.
Thank you, Ralph Nader.
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