The Turquoise Wreck

On the gravel flat by the river lies a car that died decades ago in a color that refuses to: Soviet turquoise, the shade of kitchen cabinets and better futures, rusting now into lace. I crouched beside it for a long time, reading it like a document, which it is.

Someone drove this up here when the town had a future, over passes that eat modern trucks. It carried families, tools, probably a wedding. Then the town stopped and the car stopped and only the color kept working. I photograph wrecks the way other people photograph wildflowers, and this valley is my meadow. Last Engilchek post; tomorrow the long road back over the passes, before the real snow shuts the door for the winter.