Odometer

I remember how my new Mazda 626 flew over the road as I watched the odometer turn over its first mile: my car had punched in on its life's time clock. Five years later 99,000 more miles have turned, imperceptibly, one by one: you hardly feel a thing each time, yet now the unholstery's matted with some congealed, unidentifiable stuff; the frame is slightly dented in a couple places; some mold smell wafts up from under a seat; and I've had to throw the carpets away altogether. How did all this happen, I wonder? And then the thought occurs: from the moment of birth, our bodies' meters are running, too.