Dad’s Truck

When my dad died I bought his truck.  An extended cab Toyota, silver.  Four wheel drive.  Nice little truck.  He had it for quite awhile and had taken good care of it.

I wanted the truck.  Not because of the truck.   Because of dad.

Dad always loved his vehicles.  I have pictures of dad with most of his trucks over the years.

But this was his last truck.

We drove that truck for years.  Both my husband and myself loved the truck.  For different reasons.

Every time I slid into that truck it was as if dad had just slid out and let me in behind the wheel.  Up until the last time I drove that truck, I could smell my father’s presence.  His aftershave, soap, shampoo, car smell stayed with that truck forever.  Dad never went to town without being fresh out of the shower, freshly shaved and groomed.

I could close my eyes, and I just knew, he had been there right before me.

That truck was a time capsule of  Eau de Cologne Papa.

I kept a picture of dad on the speedometer.  It stayed there until I no longer drove that truck.  It was a picture of him and one of his older trucks.  And I had some of his music tapes and cd’s.  I would drive to and from work, alone with my dad’s music, my dad’s memories, and his cologne.

That truck was a great little truck.  It took me on many, many drives with my father after he left us.

You can’t ask for more than that from a truck.

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