It was cold out there, standing and looking out the window even brought my breath visibly to my sight and I couldn’t believe he had to lay down on the ground under the truck. The light was hanging from some part of the undercarriage and LL Bean, wasn’t a part of his wardrobe. I can see right now the black boots he had on, the green work jacket with probably a flannel shirt underneath , the green workpants with the wire crease inbedded permantly down the length of his leg, must have been ice to the touch. In the big picture of life he made these huge sacrifices for us, his family. A truck was a freedom and again it was a albatross, an anchor. Lift up the anchor, get things running again, and the freedom would flap in the wind on the way down the road. A sputter and an unplanned puff of the smokestack at the wrong time and the anchor was back.
I know it was dark out, the hanging light was shining under the truck along with the glare of the porch light, it shone in my room. The gravel in the driveway made a rough surface to lay down on and bustersdaughter was writing in the fog on the window, and the coffee was black in the old restaraunt style mug, it was going to be a long cold night.
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