Old Friends
When I was a child, my dad drove an old tan and white pickup truck.
I don't really remember it, but snapshots capture my dad standing next to it in a matching leisure suit.
Eventually the pictures change over to a brand new blue and white pickup.
Standard cab, bench seat, with air conditioning. A complimentary blue camper shell was quickly added.
We would drive to the farm for the free firewood, me, Dad and Grandma.
On the way there, I would sit in a lounging fold up lawn chair, legs still bent under, and read a book to pass the time.
For the return trip I would be squished between Dad and Grandma, the three of us sweaty of being outside all day in the sun, and my book remained hidden in the pocket of the door.
In it's old age, that pickup truck tolerated me as I learned to parallel park and then chugged me gracelessly to my part time job.
My suit never matched it, and by the time I had my licence the air conditioning had stopped working,
But we had a lot of miles together, that old truck and I.
When it stopped starting every day and started stranding me on the way to work, the pickup was replaced by a nice, reliable Buick. I was happy to see it go.
Now, I'm a little sorry for being ungrateful for all those quiet moments in the lounge chair, reading a book, covering the miles.
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