It’s been weeks since the note arrived on Tom’s truck. Apparently, someone is interested in buying it from us. I hesitated to respond – a little nervous about a disgruntled person coming back to complain should it not perform. I would make no promises, and the deal would be noted “as is,” but my apprehension never resolved.
It would be a safer to just donate it, thus avoiding any direct identification to my home. Still, the months have passed since Tom’s death and the truck remains parked in our driveway. It wasn’t until yesterday that I revisited the notion of letting go of the truck (one way or another).
As I pondered calling the guy who had left the note, considering the documentation that I would want to protect from future issues, a red truck appeared ahead of me. It was the same color and make as Tom’s.
My heart leapt. It couldn’t be – I *knew* that. But still it felt as if I was following Tom home. I felt excitement and hope running through my body. We both got off the freeway at the same exit, turned in the same direction at the exit and made the same turns. The abrupt driving style was even the same as Tom’s.
I sped up to get a closer look. Even after noting that the driver was shorter than Tom (and, of course, I *knew* that it couldn’t be him), I continued to follow. While I should have gone straight (past the turn for our house), to pick up YaYa at daycare, I didn’t. The truck turned, so I turned – now I could see that the cab of the truck was different from Tom’s.
We were nearly home when the truck passed the final turn down our street. With disappointment, I headed to daycare center to pick up YaYa. I was saddened as the little red truck kept on truckin’ and felt a fresh dose of loss.
Perhaps I am not ready to part with the truck just yet. Or maybe I am. The bill for the truck’s insurance renewal has just arrived. If I could find the pink slip the decision might be a little easier.