The car was blue long ago. Now it was something else. Not black, definitely not blue, just dark. It had lived a long life. Well, long in car years. Past its prime, some would say.

Rust had found a home in several places. Dents had marred the once smooth sheet metal, and neglect weighed it down.

It sat, seemingly abandoned, in a driveway, out of the way, almost out of sight. But if you sat very still, you would hear it. Speaking softly, barely above the rustle of leaves in the morning wind, the words would make their way across the space that separated machine and man.

‘I have a scratch on my right front fender’, it said, ‘from long ago.’

A long pause, then, ‘I remember when I got every ding and bump and scratch. But that one was the first one. My paint was hardly dry and I had already scratched it.’

The whole day could be spent listening to a review of each dent and bump, scratch and crack the car had. It recited them every day and ended each recital with, ‘I should have been a better car.’

In time, the car had a new owner. This owner loved it even when it sat neglected in the driveway. ‘What a great car!’ he exclaimed as he drove down the street. ‘I love this car.’

And the car forgot everything about the dents and dings, scratches and scars, and, instead, remembered ‘I am a beautiful blue car.’