I remember fighting with Pat over who would sit where when you drove us around in your “new” truck; new being a fourteen year old rusted out Chevy pickup that broke down so much it became a running joke. We would bump and bounce on those old springy seats. You would try to see how high it could jump over the dips in the neighborhood. A little boy said, “wow, a monster truck” as you passed by, and that made your day. It had a missing part of the grill and you said it made the truck look like it was growling. I remember knowing you’d be home soon when I heard your truck rumbling through the neighborhood a few blocks away. You had a Calvin peeing on a Ford sticker on the back window with an American Flag sticker too. I still have the black and white beaded cross necklace that hung unevenly from the rearview mirror. The radio station was tuned to 98.5 KYGO, good ole country. I sat in your truck with a Kwencher and an old Bible on the floor and sunflower seeds in the glovebox, the hood and bed covered in flowers and posters as the rain poured down and the cameras clicked and the mud squished.

And then Chevy took your truck. They looked at the list you made of everything you wanted to do to it, your dream truck. You wanted a wench, lifted tires, and probably a truck bed with a floor in it. It was hard, seeing them take your truck away, even if it was only for a short time, cause that truck was so much a part of you. Your hopes, your dreams, your hard work. Then I remember, crying, seeing it unveiled for the first time at the Hope for Humanity House. Completely restored, no rust, new paint, new engine. It was beautiful. You would have loved it.

The next time your truck was moved on a trailer, was when Pat took it to Wisconsin. He had cancer and he knew he didn’t have all the time in the world. It always bothered him that your truck mostly sat in our parent’s garage and didn’t get out much. So Pat planned to put some work into it and drive it around town, maybe put it in some car shows. But after some time, the cancer ate away at Pat’s body and he no longer had the physical strength to stand, let alone drive or attempt to work on the truck. And then, when the ground was frozen, and the air so cold it took your breath away, Pat went to be with you. Once again I found myself standing in that small cemetery, next to grandma’s old house, watching as my second brother was lowered into the frozen tundra. And the truck, well, it’s had to move one more time. I know the truck would have been better in either of your hands. I know I’m going to make you both laugh or cringe, when I’m learning to drive stick shift, but I’m going to do it, maybe not well, but hopefully well enough so I can take my kids and niece out for a drive on a beautiful spring day and watch them giggle as they bounce on those old springy seats and stick their heads out the back window and fight over who gets to sit where. I hope to fix it up a bit, put it in some car shows, and tell people about the original owners. I hope my sons can maybe take their dates to prom in it, or maybe my daughter, take pictures with it on her wedding day.

Because I know…this isn’t just a truck.