Reggie's Last Ride

I set out for Green Bay—Algoma, really—on a quiet mission of love, hoping to visit the kids. My heart was light with anticipation. I’d found them these charming little arts-and-crafts kits, nestled in wooden cases—simple, sweet gifts meant to sidestep the glittery trap of commercialism. Alongside those, I picked out hand-crafted wooden games from Creative Kidstuff in Linden Hills. I wanted to give them something that felt lasting. Thoughtful. Rooted. But as I crossed into Hudson, Wisconsin, Reggie—my old Subaru Legacy—began to falter. The brakes gave out. Just like that. I eased him to a stop in the lot of a quiet bank, heart racing. I called my dad, grasping for a lifeline, but there were no easy answers. I was still close to home, so I made the call to turn back. I didn’t want to, not at all. I wept there in the parking lot, heart aching with the weight of not being able to see the kids, of disappointing them—and myself. The drive back was tense, crawling along with failing brakes, nursing the emergency brake down each hill. The Lyndale exit was a white-knuckled descent, but somehow, Reggie got me home. Barely. And then, as if the day hadn’t taken enough, I discovered my wallet was gone. That was Reggie’s last ride. I let him go after that. Now, I take the bus. At first it felt daunting—learning the routes, feeling small in the swell of the city. My first morning was a comedy of errors: deep snow, an icy stop missed, a trek through snowdrifts. I arrived at work with a beard full of frost, my coworkers laughing gently as they welcomed me in. They understood. These days, I ride the bus most mornings. It feels right, in a strange way—being carried through the rhythm of the city among strangers. When I need it, I borrow an old Taurus from a friend, a humble backup when the schedule or weather gets wild. But mostly, it’s me, bundled up, waiting at the corner, breathing in the city, letting life unfold at bus speed.