We were hopelessly in love when he got the letter. Everyone over the age of eighteen had to go and fight in the war whether they wanted to or not. I was only seventeen, but unfortunately Louis was nineteen and was forced to go. I begged him to let me come with him, I told him I could pass as eighteen, but he refused to let me. He was always worried about me, and wanted what was best for me. He took care of me, and in return I did anything he asked.
The day he left he promised that he’d find me again one day and we would be together for the rest of our lives, so I believed him, because I trusted him.
He never came back.
His dirty baseball cap still sits on the dashboard where the sun shines on it and makes it look even worse. He used to wear it all the time, but I thought it looked cute on him, so I didn’t say anything.
His dog tags still hang from the rearview mirror. Whenever I drive his truck I hear them clinking and the only scene that comes to my mind is the officer standing at my front door holding them out to me. I had taken them as the officer explained that Louis had died during the war, but his body was never found. I haven’t been the same since that fateful day.
I reached up and gently turned over the dog tags so I could read them once again.
Louis W. Tomlinson
Unit 49
Doncaster, England
His old leather boots still sit on the back seat. They stink, but it doesn’t bother me, because they still have the faint smell of…Louis. It makes his truck seem more like him. He was always messy and didn’t bother putting things up. It was one of the things I loved about him.
Beside the boots is a folded up green military shirt that hasn’t been worn in two years. I ran my fingers lightly over the soft material and sighed, feeling closer to Louis somehow. I could practically feel him sitting next to me, holding my hand like so many times before.
I cranked the engine and checked the gas. His truck burns gas like crazy, but I couldn’t bear to part with it no matter how hard I tried. My mum had suggested selling it, but I flat out refused to do that.
My friends say I’m crazy for keeping his truck and driving around in it whenever I’m lonely, but it’s just my way of coping. People have their ways of coping and I have mine.
I cranked the truck and rolled the windows down, tearing out of the parking lot and driving to the familiar dirt road on the other side of town. I drove around carelessly as I tore up the fields until the pain was just a cloud of dust behind me.
I cranked up the radio to the station he always listened to and swerved through the dirt and grass. He’d probably be disappointed if he saw what I was doing, but he would wipe the tears from my eyes and say everything would be okay, because that’s just who Louis was. I try to be tough, but when I’m in his truck all of my emotions bubble to the surface and I just can’t hold it in anymore.
My mum asked me last night if I had been to Louis’s grave lately, so I told her the truth. I haven’t been to his grave since the funeral. The British flag and small marble tomb don’t do anything for me. I don’t feel like I’m with him when I stand in front of his grave. I only feel his presence when I’m driving his truck.
I Drive Your Truck
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