Our good car, the one named Anna, is in need of attention. Half way home from Connecticut she started to clank over bumps. In the days following the sound has become more pronounced. It is like a wrench or other essential piece of machinery has rattled loose and is bouncing around between the carburetor and spark plugs. 

John called our mechanic, the one who has kept the compact named Frodo going long into his twenties, but Mario is swamped and cannot fit us in until the weekend. Hence the need to drive oh so slowly, and cautiously over the hills of Alden Road. Ferrying the twins back and forth as I do they chat about zumba and history, while my ears are attuned to the engine and the catastrophe that could happen with no notice. 

It makes sense to attend to problems before disaster strikes. We are treading on risky ground by hanging on until Saturday when we can plop our aging van in Mario's driveway. I have every confidence that he will find the trouble. He is not intimidated by gear shafts or leaky oil filters. We just need to limp along until then. 

Years ago a friend complained to me that her husband would not agree to work on their marriage. She had suggested a myriad of possibilities. Counseling. Books. A retreat. The conference. A small group. Mentors. But he did not see the need. The clanking was not loud enough for him yet.

She could hear the warning signs. Criticism. Contempt. Apathy. Silence. Her desire was to improve their relationship before it fell apart. I am not sure if they took steps. It would be wonderful if they could do more than limp.