Monday, November 1

Dear Chevy Cheyenne,

Dear Chevy Cheyenne,
How I miss you.  You belonged to me for such a short period of my life, but you meant so much.  Remember how I would lay down across your wonderful bench seat and nap anywhere and everywhere?  And the springs in the driver’s part were broken by me? Do you remember me as a wee little tike, age 2, time to get out, walking across to the edge, simply kicking my feet out and landing on my bum? So when I drove you at age 21, I had to sit on a pillow just so I would be able to see?  Good times. 
Do you remember belonging to my dad?  You were his when he ripped his Achilles tendon the second time.  I vividly recall him pounding on your dash in frustration at himself.  You didn’t deserve the abuse, but you took it like the champ you were.
And that time at my dad’s softball game, I don’t remember where we were, but I remember there were giant bugs flying around all over creation.  You sheltered me in your cab from the demon insects.  Thank you.
We had so many good times together!  Your lovely matching camper that held me so high in the air as we drove down the road allowing me to see great distances ahead.  Riding anywhere and everywhere in your bed gazing at the beauty of the heavens.  Hauling jet skis to lakes for holidays and vacations, storing coolers in your bed.  Moving our family from Hesperia to Phoenix.  Trying to protect the trailer we were trying to sell, but you yourself getting broken in to.  In later years, the many colors of paint you proudly wore.  The weird spot in the bed that melted anything that came in contact.  Your disdain for a key to start you was years ahead of your time.  Your split windows and broken cranks and horrible gas mileage and pathetic radio and self-changing oil and shorted out horn and brights foot pedal and duel gas tanks.  I miss it all.
I did my best to take care of you.  I added oil when you got low.  I didn’t let anyone just toss their trash in your bed.  I tried to keep them from scratching your rust when we hauled props.  I wouldn’t let just anyone drive you.  I washed you and vacuumed you and kept a nice blanket as your seat cover.
I was devastated when my parents sold you.  Truly.  And to someone who didn’t care at all.  Do you remember that last hug I gave you a few days after your sale and just weeks before your death?  I still miss you.
If I could have located you in your abandonment, I would have pushed you home and never let you go again.  And then someday I would have made your outside as beautiful as your inside and handed you down to my daughter, but only if she loved you as I loved you.
I miss you.  If you’re out there, somewhere, please come home to my heart where you belong.
In love and sincerity,

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