A long time ago I used to gas my truck up, roll down the windows, and drive. It was the time I’d do my heavy thinking, work on problems and issues, or just drop out and listen to the universe.
It was also my muse. My mind came alive thinking complicated story lines and complex characters or just a good opening sentence.
It was time I loved, it was time I mourned.
I sold my truck after it cost $55 to fill up. Even though it was something I needed to do, it’s something I still regret. I had that truck for over 13 years, and those years were some of the most important in my life.
The truck only had two bucket seats and now my family had outgrown it. So like a man getting rid of his favorite dog, I interviewed the man who bought it. He lives in College Hill, retired cop, has two sons in the military, and a son that promised to rebuild the engine on the truck. Something I knew needed to be done but I couldn’t justify. He always wanted a truck, and he was excited about it. He even paid the full sale price.
I watched that truck leave and stayed outside until it turned the corner. It reminds me how I watched an old lover that moved away leave me for the last time.
Now, my little car holds my family well.
Driving is now about the destination and not the journey. The chaos of the city around morning rush hour and everyone driving home. Radio screams talk, bad news, or heavy metal.
Tonight, I rolled down the windows, turned off the radio, and drove. Listening to the whisper of bullfrogs and crickets in the early evening air and watching a storm slowly roll in from the west.
And there is a word echoing in the back of my mind . . . Drive.
It was also my muse. My mind came alive thinking complicated story lines and complex characters or just a good opening sentence.
It was time I loved, it was time I mourned.
I sold my truck after it cost $55 to fill up. Even though it was something I needed to do, it’s something I still regret. I had that truck for over 13 years, and those years were some of the most important in my life.
The truck only had two bucket seats and now my family had outgrown it. So like a man getting rid of his favorite dog, I interviewed the man who bought it. He lives in College Hill, retired cop, has two sons in the military, and a son that promised to rebuild the engine on the truck. Something I knew needed to be done but I couldn’t justify. He always wanted a truck, and he was excited about it. He even paid the full sale price.
I watched that truck leave and stayed outside until it turned the corner. It reminds me how I watched an old lover that moved away leave me for the last time.
Now, my little car holds my family well.
Driving is now about the destination and not the journey. The chaos of the city around morning rush hour and everyone driving home. Radio screams talk, bad news, or heavy metal.
Tonight, I rolled down the windows, turned off the radio, and drove. Listening to the whisper of bullfrogs and crickets in the early evening air and watching a storm slowly roll in from the west.
And there is a word echoing in the back of my mind . . . Drive.
4 comments:
Damn, Brian, that was really well written. I'm impressed. Again.
Thank you, sir.
It's a tribute to a long lost lover.
Please tell me you at least kept the vanity tag!!! I was about to cry for you.
The thing you must remember, dear -- at least in the sense of your Muse and your connection to the Universe -- is that it was the process, not the vehicle. The way you found a way to be silent with yourself so you can actually hear your Muse and the Universe.
As for the rest, allow yourself to mourn, then look into the beautiful faces of your three ladies and know you made the right decision.
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