We use it this weekend, it's rarity for me a moment to smell the wood that is his labor and touch the seat that holds the receipts and empty bottles and scribblings of his hand. He's shoving it all over as I climb in.
this work truck
this trip for two
the pile of change when pockets are empty
his Bible with curled edges from car sun
the note he still has, faded and yellowed and worn
the tape measure that made the little tear
knowing where they all are
music of God's love filling the cab
wood dust to finger a heart in
silence
the brush of his thumb on my neck
the trucks that pass that I am not in, because I am here
One thousand gifts, #50-61.
