red truck

dad didn’t own a red truck until the move to mississippi (the ranchero insufficiently utilitarian to count) after our exodus, they came and went like the latest trends in women’s lipstick shades traveling in the latest incarnation a toasted scarlet super cab built for hauling men and their gear from construction site to wilderness and back dad driving (yes) me riding shotgun loading up memories of prior rides firing them into consciousness like birdshot from the .410 behind the seat a voice gnarled by age breaks the drone of wheels on pavement shakes the wanderer to attention dad speaking you know, your mom and i talked and we know that we may not have been the best parents but you kids turned out allright the road hums on physical distance from here to there knowable, measurable emotional distance confined within the passenger area more adequately described in terms of the calculus i should have a response twenty-plus years of driving myself journeying far and wide seeking what hadn’t been given had been taken i should have a response the road hums on me and my dad riding in the red truck again