Itâs the end of the road for my rolling refuge: Saruvan. Poor old guy isnât going to last much longer. Heâs tired. Filthy. Rusty. Theyâre taking him away tomorrow. Iâm terribly sad about it. I feel terrible because I delayed moving everything in at once and didnât have time to detrash the crap inside.
It looks like a homeless dude lived in the truck for a hard couple years. Not like someone who professed to know how to take care of such a vehicle. I feel ashamed.
So after I removed my last load of nearly forgotten artifacts, I took a look at him. My eyes channeled JĂŒrgen Prochnowâs brilliant dramatization of KorvettenkapitĂ€n Lehmann-Willenbrock like a defeated commander of his namesake vessel, his vessel slowly dying; my own facing the sunset. His last. My last as his captain.
Then it dawned on me, because it was street sweeping day, I had to move the truck to the other side of the street. The timing was so perfect as to orient him facing toward a blissful sunset over the Pacific Ocean, rather than lurking in the shadows out of sight. He stood proud in the fading daylight, looking west. He looked at peace with his end.
I posted a comment to my private album to let me family know how it is out here sometimes. I meant it it be short. But it started going on. Before I knew it, the tone had taken on a ln eulogy-like tone. Here is my goodbye letter to my old guy:
Sunsetting old Saruvan, U-96. So long, old friend. Itâs time to retire and be recycled into either a madmaxian assault vehicle, or our incoming robot overlords. Whatever your destiny, look kindly upon those humans you helped ferry to safety and shelter from the storms of life. Goodbye, rusty wanderer.
