I lost an old friend the other day, one that had been with me for almost half my life, through some epic ups and downs. She brought me warmth and helped feed me. She made my life better in a good number of ways, and I’ll miss her.

Yes, I’ll miss that microwave.

She was my first, and for more than twenty years, my one and only. I’ve been married twice, and even tried to drag anther one to the altar even before that. Twice. The common thread between these women? They all used that old Samsung, which did for them as she did for me. Loyal to the very end, she had been with me through six homes, two states, five counties, and two college degrees. I was still an undergrad when she took up residence in my home (though I did take a five-year spring break at one point). As a night student who would labor all day before driving that long stretch to and from Seton Hall, I’d come home to my apartment long after dark, where she was always was, waiting patiently, to warm me up some dinner.

And then one day, suddenly, after all those years, she just decided, this isn’t working for me anymore.

Well, to be more precise, I decided – after first hearing an unfamiliar pop and fizzle – that she was not working for me anymore. Like, at all. My overtures (for some hot water) were returned with a strange coolness that let me know something was very wrong. Her systems gave out all at once and no more would she warm my heart … or tea. But at least it was sudden.

That doesn’t make replacing her any easier, though. There were so many things I liked about her but always took for granted. And now they’re gone – all gone – replaced by another … although this new one really does perform all the same functions. More quietly, in fact. Faster, too. To be honest, it’s really rather sharp … er, rather, Sharp©.

The ol’ Samsung was recently predeceased by her father, a 1985 Tappan microwave that occupied a place in my parents’ kitchens for an astounding thirty-one years before slipping away late last fall. Together, for more than fifty years, the combined to agitate and radiate the molecules that made up our day-old pizza, leftover lentil soup, and reanimated cups of coffee. That legacy of small-appliance longevity was noted by the floor associate at the Home Depot, who, as I lifted the new Sharp from the shelf, said, “Twenty years? Microwave don’t last twenty years!”

No, sir, I’ll admit that sort of tenure isn’t common these days.

But my old friend? She was never common.