When Ellen grew gravely ill toward the end, I would take her on drives in that old pickup because it remained the sole thing capable of bringing a smile to her face. She would roll the window down, letting her hand drift in the rushing breeze like a teenager.
“This old machine,” she would murmur, gently patting the dash. “It’ll outlast both of us, Frank.”
She was half right.
So no, it is never merely a truck. Reaching my stage in life means your possessions begin carrying the echoes of everyone you have lost. That vehicle is brimming with Ellen. Every scratch tells a story.
Which is precisely why the vanishing gasoline bothered me far beyond reason.
It kicked off on a Tuesday.
I recall distinctly because Tuesdays are reserved for filling the tank. I am a creature of habit—isolation tends to instill that in you. I topped it off completely at the Shell station along Hollis, forty-one dollars and change, and drove straight home.
The following day I headed out to assist my buddy Walt with a fence repair. Walt lives roughly ten minutes away and struggles with arthritic knees, so I drop by periodically to handle chores beyond his reach. We mended the fence, polished off two beers, grumbled about our aching backs, and I returned home.
