I Drive Your Truck

I grab the door handle, about to swing it open. I glance behind me one more time, drinking in the layout and the pictures of Jake and me. I let the wave of memories wash over me one last time. I know I probably won’t return to this house. It hurts too much.

I walk out, slowly making my way down the front porch. The summer when I was twelve, Jake and I painted the porch white. Jake had said something that had pissed me off, so I dumped a bucket of paint on his head. The astounded look on his face caused me to roar hysterically. Jake got a mischievous grin on his face, and I backed away slowly, hands raised in the air. Jake grabbed a bucket of paint and dumped it on my head. It had turned into a paint war, and we were both smothered with it. Of course, we were grounded for a good week, but it was worth it.

I bound down the stairs, my chest heaving. It hurts. I look to the front lawn. Jake and I had learned how to play football on that grass. My dad had taught us. Jake and I would practice every day. Winter, spring, summer, fall, we would be out there tossing the ball back and forth. I ended up being first string quarterback, and he was my receiver.

Tears trail down my face harder. It feels as if an ocean was lying dormant in my tear ducts, and are now unleashed.

I run towards the truck with all my might, trying to escape the memories. The rusted metal shines in the sunlight. It sits in the same place he left it, untouched, undisturbed.

Without my permission, my legs slow down. The sight of his truck takes my breath away. Through the tears, through the pain, through the heartbreak and sorrow, I still can manage a small smile at the ole thing.

I stick the key into the lock and turn. It groans just like how I remember it. I open the door slowly, and the hinges groan in protest.

There is a dollar fifty in the ash tray, and dog tags hanging on the rearview. On the dash is a Patriots cap. I look towards the backseat and see a leather jacket with some cowboy boots. A football rolls along the floor on the passenger’s side. A bottle of his cologne is discarded on the passenger seat. The truck smells like him- leather, musk, and the smell of wind after a thunderstorm.

I hesitantly climb onto the gray leather seat. A long gash runs along the seat, and it leaks out the memory foam. I swing my legs in, and slam the door, remembering that it won’t close unless I do so. I swiftly wipe my tears away. Jake would sock me in the arm if he were here.

Glancing behind me on the rearview, I see the weathered black leathered jacket lying on the back seat. I reach out and take it. I marvel at the feeling of the cloth on my fingertips. Pulling it towards me, my eyes rake along it. The cuff of the sleeves has torn from the years of use. The collar, once smooth, is now wrinkled and torn. Crinkles run along the back side of it. My fingers reach into the right pocket, and fall right through. I chuckle slightly, remembering the day Jake did that. He had been late for his part time job at a local pharmacy, and he rushed out the door. Somehow, the pocket of the sleeve had caught in the door, and when he pulled, it tore the seams. I remember laughing at his screaming curses, and told him to hurry along.

I lift the jacket to my nose and inhale. I smile at the scent. I slowly pull it on. Jake and I were identical, so it wouldn’t matter.

It feels like he is here hugging me. I can smell his scent, feel the leather that would normally surround me, hear the crinkles that it makes, and see the blackness of it.

I lean back into the truck’s seat, and pull on the seatbelt. I gently insert the key into the ignition, remembering how most mornings we were late to school because the damned thing wouldn’t start. As per usual, the truck wouldn’t start. But what isn’t usual is that I don’t mind.