The Buddy Truck

It was getting harder to breathe. The number of tough days was now outweighing the good. Helped by medication, Eric was finally able to nap. When he awoke, he wanted to go outside to see his truck.

Eric called it “the buddy truck.” He always referred to his two girls, Erica and Kailey, as his little buddies, and they loved riding in that truck with him — despite the fact that its paint was faded, several windows wouldn’t work, and its stereo had quit long ago.

Even though the family budget couldn’t afford to worry about such things, Eric’s wife, with the help of her mother, managed to have “the buddy truck” repainted Navy blue and get new window motors and a sound system installed.

With careful steps, Eric circled the truck slowly, running a hand softly over its surface — tickled that his truck had been treated so well, but sad that he was no longer fit to drive it.

I helped Eric climb into the driver’s seat, knowing he wasn’t going anywhere. Gently, he put his hands on the wheel and made the sound a child makes when pretending to drive:

“Brrrrrrrm … ”

I hoped he was dreaming.

Dreaming about a beautiful stretch of road with his little buddies beside him.