By Claudia Anderson
I don’t know how many of us are here now. Our weight steadily increased until one day the machines lay silent. The parameters of our existence really do not bother us much anymore. Weight and length and color are nothing more than shadowed measurements of something once thought important.
We are tired, some of us more than others. Our collective consciousness is slowly seeping out of this world, thoughts of ever-after more a smile than a possibility. I think there are six of us here on this flatbed. We mouth colors of Regal Black and Arctic White and Matador Red, but no sound comes out. Perhaps that is what we were once called. It doesn’t really matter now. Our identities no longer lay within the tints of our shell. The cold September wind is whipping around us, rhythmically snapping some long forgotten trim against someone’s bumper. We lay together, six tall, waiting for our last road trip, trying to remember what we once were.