I see you in old Chevy trucks with rust around the edges and in Mexican-colored blankets that cover the seats.
If I’m lucky, I hear you in their engines when I pull up to a stoplight, and for a second—
I’m 14 again, and you’re taking me to school before another grueling graveyard shift at the steel mill. You glance over with a bit of angst and say, “I’m sorry this truck embarrasses you, babe.” We both laugh in that truth.
This is a moment I wish I could return to—to tell you all the things I love about that truck and our early mornings, just us. To tell you that now, from the other side of youth, I see so clearly: there was no place I’d rather be than in that old Chevy truck with you.
I smell you in fresh New Mexico chilies that somehow land on my plate, even when I didn’t order them.
I still linger over every bite of BBQ chicken with a bit of char on the tops during summer evenings.
I touch you every time my hand lands on a page in the Bible.
I meet you at the edge of the shore, where the sand meets the sea and heaven opens for a second—just long enough for humanity to meet their loved ones who reside out in the distance, on the other side. The other side of health issues, traumas, and broken marriages. Where it doesn’t matter how much money one makes.
I watch you in your purity there on the sea, in your own small boat, wrapped up in unimaginable peace.
