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Full face fucking forward.

A quick glance in the rearview mirror. Nothing but dust; dust from my wheels, and spitting gravel. Nothing else. No one else.

Eyes back to the windshield. It’s cracked. Of course. And no one ahead of me. Mountains with snow, a bay, volcanoes, glaciers, and an empty road.

My foot gets heavy on the accelerator, and I push the gas. My seat belt is draped over me, and it’s not attached. Just something to keep the cops disinterested in an easy stop.

My thumb hurts holding the steering wheel and I adjust my grip to the top at the 10:00 grip. Still hurts.

My feet hurt. Ankles, legs, hips, arms, shoulders, neck, eyes …

Living with pain becomes easier as it becomes something unavoidable. Or some such. Who knows. Not me. Then there’s work tired. I know that one, too.

Windows won’t roll down in the truck. Passenger door won’t open. Bed is rusted out and has holes. The truck is more rust than paint, really. Perfect farm truck.

Ah. There’s a smile. A boy and his truck. I move my thumb to the bottom of the steering wheel and steer as I reach for a cigarette.

Written by Father Luke Saturday August 5, 2017