You don’t forget the sound an old diesel engine makes when you shut it off after eighteen straight hours on the road.
That low, shuddering rumble faded into a heavy silence that morning, and I just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring at the stadium lights flickering on in the gray dawn. My knee throbbed. My back ached. But my heart was beating so fast I could feel it in my teeth.
My daughter was about to become an Army officer.
I’d driven through three states, through the night, with only coffee and old country songs to keep me company. My Freightliner is older than most of the cadets marching around that field, but it’s never let me down. Kind of like me, I suppose. A little worn out, maybe, but still running.
The morning smelled like fresh-cut grass and nervous excitement. Families were spilling out of minivans and rental cars, carrying flowers and cameras. I climbed down from the cab real slow, favoring my left knee. It always aches before a storm, but this morning the sky was clear. Maybe the ache was just age. Or maybe it was memory.
I caught my reflection in the truck’s side mirror just for a second. Gray stubble. Deep lines around my eyes. A face that had seen too many sunrises through a windshield. I wore my one good shirt, a blue flannel I’d pressed in the sleeper cab with a travel iron that barely worked. I’d shaved at a truck stop outside of Nashville, nicking my jaw twice. I dabbed the cuts with toilet paper and hoped nobody would notice.
