The engine of my truck rattled down to nothing as it always did, reluctant to sleep, and the door gave a deep creak and a hollow bang as I shut it. I ran my hand over the fender as I walked away. The paint was old and rough, with just the tiniest glimmer remaining of the sheen that I used to be able to see my reflection in. All these years and it never once let me down. I smiled as my hand trailed away off of the hood and brushed the glass of the headlight.
People often give affection to things that aren’t alive. Seems to be our vehicles mostly, but other things, too. My truck isn’t even one thing, it’s thousands of things, all working together. When I replace the spark plugs, the wiring harness, the oil, it’s still the same truck to me. New hood, new headlights, same truck. So at what point does it lose its essential character, the part that I feel affection for? How many parts can I separate or remove, before it’s just parts and the truck is gone?
I thought about that on the way to the house, but I wasn’t really thinking about my truck, as much as I love that old heap. I was thinking about my life, and when it stopped being my life and turned into just a collection of things and memories. When I stopped feeling fondness and affection for it. I lost parts of it over the years, and without knowing it, enough parts came away that I could no longer recognize the shape of it or feel a connection to it. I’m not complaining, mind you. I have no patience for whiners, but there comes a point when you realize that the race is over, win or lose.
Inside the house, I hung my keys on a small brass hook screwed into a wooden heart painted red with white piping. There’s another hook right next to it, just as scratched and dull as mine, but it’s empty.
On my way through the kitchen, I dropped my hat over the same chair back that I’ve used nearly every day for the last forty years. In the living room, the TV tray that I had set out next to my recliner was still there. My old Browning M1911 was on it, waiting for me. I sat down in the recliner with a familiar creaking of wood and springs and looked around at the room, at the walls.