The Old Truck

It is a bleak February day, gray and damp with a mist that sits heavy around the world, when we make the long drive to his childhood home, where the old Chevy sits under a grave blanket of snow, left to him by a man who has been gone for a long, hard decade already. With a tender touch and skilled hands, he works under the hood; then in the bed, removing last fall's leaves, which have kept her warm under all the ice and snow.

One mighty shake and rumble later, the engine jumps to life. The frame creaks and groans, like some beast awakening from a deep slumber.

With a combination of strength and gentleness that is so uniquely his, he pats the cab and whispers, "That's my girl."

I find myself suddenly sentimental.

This is the truck that saw one lifelong romance through to the very end, and that played such an instrumental role in the blossoming of our own relationship. The memories flood through me with each turn of the motor.

Red bench seats, windows down, a crisp breeze blowing off the reservoir, and sand between my bare toes on the dashboard, the dog's happy pant between the two of us.

Dark streets and winding turns with our October masks streaked across our faces during the deepest, spookiest nights.

The smell of smoke deep in my clothes on the way back from countless bonfires, the hairs on my arm tingling from the touch of fresh, young love.

My head thrown back, wild with laughter, sitting at the side of a pasture at midnight, liquid eyes watching me in the glow of the headlights.

Stars and crickets, wicked thunderstorms and sunshine, and miles and miles with loads of hay, and wood, and furniture.

I stare at the dark gray tailgate rolling down the road to the shop, and silly hot tears well in my eyes. We're bringing the old girl home with us at last. It has been too long that she has sat unused beneath the slender white trunks of arching birch trees. The next chapter of our lives is unfolding at lightning speed, but I suspect this set of wheels has seen it all before.