Dad's Blue Pick-Up

I stared down at the grey slack of stone. “I miss you so much.”

I sighed and looked around, hating the response of silence. The cemetery was filled, yet it felt so empty. Though there were a lot of fresh flowers on the graves of loved ones, I never saw anyone ever come or go. I wiped away an unwanted tear and picked at the flower bouquet in my hand, the orange and red of the begonias matching the tri-colored leaves of fall around me.

“The truck is doing well. I haven’t had to replace the air conditioner since the last time we did it.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around since.... I didn’t know if I could do it. Be here and talk to you like you were still here, like you could hear me.”

More Silence.

I absent-mindedly rubbed my stomach, smiling when I felt a little thump. I looked up at the blue 1975 Ford F-100 that once belonged to my dad. We’ve been through a lot, that truck and I. From the memories I made with my dad, to it leading me to love and a happiness I thought wouldn’t be possible.

A lot has happened since the last time I was here, standing in this field of stone. Two years of simultaneous overwhelming pain and joy. A walk down the aisle with my older brother by myside. A skipped father-daughter dance. A week of rough mornings before a plus sign on a stick. Another coffin cried over and lowered.

I looked at the headstone next to my dad’s, the turned dirt not yet grassed over. Mom took a turn for the worst a year after dad died. She wasn’t used to being by herself and the grief wouldn’t let go of its hold. She moved in with Adam and I, but she never fully got back to her old self. She stopped eating, stopped wanted to go out, stopped living. She eventually passed away peacefully in her sleep two weeks ago.

“Oh, momma.” I shook my head and sighed before looking up at the truck again. This time Adam was leaning up against the cab, his arms crossed over his chest and a small smile on his face as he watched me.

His big news that night we went to Vino was that he had sent in a partial manuscript to a publishing friend of his, and they were interested in seeing it finished. The moment he got to town, away from the big city and the pressure that came with it, he got the inspiration and the will to write again. Only this time, he started writing a novel, which is what he had set out to do all those years ago before starting at the newspaper. He told me that with this new career path, he would be able to stay in Mountain Brook. That he would love to stay in Mountain Brook. Because it’s easy to write here, because I’m here.

I never thought selling my dad’s truck would be the best thing to ever happen to me.

I let my fingers drag across the top of his tombstone as I started to walk away. “Bye daddy.”