That time I was accused of being a murderer

Once upon a time in a land far away, a young woman bought her first new car. This shiny 2000 vehicle was much beloved and pampered. The sunroof was regularly polished to allow the beams to penetrate her fair hair. Special mats were purchased from the land of Toyota to protect the carpeting. And power windows might have been opened and closed just because.

Fast forward two decades.


While the Corolla served its owner well and was rewarded with limited mileage there were changes that time wrought that could not be undone. The car’s underbelly was corroding. Things like mufflers simply fell off. Repairs were made but, alas, neatness went. From weekly hand washes, to weekly drive through car washes, to we’ll get it washed when we get around to it, to well … it’s an old car anyway. Grime formed. The now not-so-young woman had a husband and children and work and even sometimes writing to manage. The car sunk in priority until it became nothing more than some wheels and a loud engine.

Along the way an odd assortment of detritus found its way into the small trunk. One can’t know the origins. An over-sized umbrella. A rope. A white towel with strange brown stains. A black cloth. Individually, they represent nothing. But lumped together they garnered a deadpan, “You must be a murderer,” from the woman’s teenage daughter.

Was she caught? Were those rope fibers or hair fibers? Was it dirt or dried blood?

This writer is not telling.



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