Truckers

I just looked out the window and thought, wow, what if every time a truck reached its destination the driver celebrated? Like, YES, I just dropped off thousands of pounds of goods across the continent and now I deserve something special. Go out with all my friends, clink our frothy mugs, laugh hard with my baseball cap on, then drive that truck back laughing, then smiling, then without a trace of a smile, driving through the night to get back to my wife and kids. I miss them so much. It’ll be good to see them again. Heh, I chuckle, a sly smile on my face, but wistfulness in my eyes.


Home. What does that mean to a trucker? Is it a hotel bed for a week with a sultry broad? Or is it somewhere where people wish you would stay, wish you would get a real job, wish they couldn’t sit by their darkened windows at night staring, looking out, 2am, 3am, wondering if you were spending the night with another woman, if there were other mothers out there looking out their windows on the same night for you too, wondering if they would ever know the real you.

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