The seats were worn because he was a good person. He would pick up anyone, from hitchhikers, to the local drunk. The front cab floors were dirty and so were his boots. He worked hard. The windshield was smudged. The bed was rusty from carrying loads a many. My brother and I included on Saturdays. The wind would blow through our hair as we went to the park. Crowded by our dogs, bikes, and father’s golf clubs. The glove compartment was full of pencils and paper. Long trips were for learning. He wanted to teach his kids the thing he knew most about— math. On Sundays the truck included a bible. We would sing songs until we were hoarse. Holding the notes out until we couldn’t breathe. The glove compartment always had quarters for an ice cream sandwich for our sore throats. This truck was not a “looker” by any means. My father was a modest dresser, often selecting his most comfortable shirts that were worn and holy. We hated being dropped off at school in in that truck.

There was a constant buzz from the radio that filled the silence of every trip; the same way that his love carries on through the silence. The dashboard included maps. No matter how far he journeyed, he found his way home to us. My father and the truck were old-timers. They both earned every scar, scratch, and dent that they had. You could often hear them both before you could see them. The truck’s mumbling engine and my father with his infectious laughter. Above all, they were a reliable pair. I can’t separate my memories of my father from the truck. It’s like they were one. Driving our family through good times, bad times, and the in-betweens. Until they couldn’t bear the load another day.