Troubled cure

When I got back from Pilates, just now, I took Happy out to the boulevard to see if she'd take a dump, and three massive bald eagles appeared above my street, circled riotously above my mother's white van a few times, screeching, and then flew fast to the north and out of sight. What the hell has gotten into them? This isn't even their neighborhood.

The old white van on Saturna, (older, more yellowed, than the one my mother keeps here), finally died two days ago. It was about eighteen. I remember it picking me up from the preschool that prepared me for real preschool. The inside of the van was maroon. It was made before AC was standard. Now it's being towed away to the Saturna "car guy", (Derm, who missed a hockey game to fix a flat for me, once) to be stripped for parts. I'm actually sad about it. It's become organic, with all these years on they island, waiting for somebody to take the plane in and use it. I mean, it's covered in moss. And mold. It smells like dirt. The wirey black hairs of my dead dog are still buried in the upholstery. O crappy van. O van.

The old white van my mother uses here, (grey upholstery, alien sticker on the back, with AC but still no CD player), is going to take up residence on Saturna. And, to my continued amazement, she's already said that her next in-city car won't be a new white van. Gibberish, I know, but she can dream.