 Words by Jacy Frazee Photo by Sara Freitag Driving down the highway I have to swerve, a grey Chevy truck dashing into view, cutting me off. Every time I see that kind of truck, I can't help but think of you. I think of all those times I’d peer out my window to see you parked on the curb. My heart would jump with the sight of you standing there. I’d pound down the stairs and into the street; you'd open up your arms in greetings to me. Your arm then swings over my shoulder as you lead me around the truck to its passenger door.
I shouldn’t look, but I always have to; I shouldn’t associate this truck to yours, but I always do. I look, but it’s never you, it’s just another Chevy driver with a past not tied to my own. I don’t know if it’s disappointment or relief I get knowing it’s not you. But even now, years later, every Silverado I see I think of you; it doesn’t even have to be the same color, make or year, the Chevy decal is enough to spark remembrance. I remember you, the way you’d always open that passenger door for me, the smell of your air freshener instantly welcoming me and spilling out onto the sidewalk. It was always the same smell, the same small little tree. You never hung it on the rearview mirror though; instead, it was thrown on the dash. The small tree carelessly sliding around as we drove away. It would rest there in the sun until the smell faded and you'd replace it with an identical copy as if the previous one never existed. Did you ever feel remorse after tossing one away for another? Did you ever think of changing the smell, deviating from what you were used to? Did you replace me as easily as you did those little pine tree air-fresheners?
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