Just That Easy

  Eighteen days. I am eighteen days away from his being gone four years. Eighteen days from four years of hearing the sounds of that big truck pulling in. Eighteen days from four years of not hearing that diesel engine, the air brakes, the horn alerting us to the fact he was home. Eighteen days away from four years of not dealing what all that came with being the spouse of a long haul truck driver. 

Most days now, I’m fine. I can look at his photo without that deep seated agony of loss and loneliness. I can walk by where he once parked that truck without the ache and echoes. Most days I don’t remember all the times he would stand in the doorway to this room and pick up the same items one by one and ask yet again about them. I’ve begun work on the inside of the house. This room is finished. The kitchen maybe half way. Covid and the loss of my job has put everything on hold. The changes make it easier.


Most days, I don’t feel his presence, his memory a cherished treasure tucked safely away. This room is filled with photos of him, but looking at them now doesn’t hurt so badly. It actually brings a smile as I recall where and when each was taken.


 I have moved beyond the crippling sadness and fear of being alone and learned how to stand on my own. My son is still here at home, and I do have family near by, but mostly I am on my own. Learning how to do and take care of and make those phone calls that always made me crazy trying to deal with customer service anywhere. Now, I make the calls, handle the repairs and make the steps forward into what ever comes next.


 Then, just moments ago, as I sat here eating breakfast for lunch my peace was shattered. By a simple sound. 

The dirt road I live on feeds off of one of the direct routes to the nearby town and to the interstate. It isn’t unusual for the big trucks to travel that road. Hearing them passing has become rather easy to ignore.

Until moments ago.

For what ever reason the driver decided it was the appropriate time to use the truck’s Jake brakes. That sound coming out of nowhere was like a stab to the heart. That broken rumble sending shock waves and echoes through an unprepared mind. But its just a sound, a noise, an annoyance to many. How could that create such painful memories?

Because.

Truck driving is something totally different than any other job. It is essential, we need those drivers so we can have our stuff. They spend weeks or months out there on the road, away from home, friends and family. They fight more issues than we ever will just attempting to do their job. Yet, as important, dedicated and how much they sacrifice, they are the least respected and most abused.

He was one of those out there, doing what he could, the best he could. I only rode with him once and it was a short ride. That short ride, gave me a very slight, idea of how it feels to ride the road in one of those big trucks. I wish that I had been able to go out on a long run with him. I was always working though and we were in the position that I had to work. 

Eighteen days from four years gone. Usually I do well, usually I’m fine. Then a sound, a familiar, recognizable, missed sound, sent me spiraling into a bout of sadness and missing him. It was just that easy.

About rebecca s revels

A writer, a photographer, a cancer survivor. An adventurer of the mild kind, a lover of the simple pleasures such as long walks and chocolate. A Christian unashamed of my faith and a friend who is dependable and will encourage readily. Author of three self published books with more waiting to find their way to paper. An advocate of good things, a fighter against wrongs.
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