The hardest part about the past, at least for me, is that you’re in so much of it.
Remember that one Christmas when we were driving through North Dakota, which is mostly empty, and we passed that burned-out husk of an ice cream truck on the shoulder of the road?
You told me to stop the car so that you could take some pictures.
“There isn’t a town in any direction for fifty miles,” you said. “What do you think happened?”
I kept real quiet, because even then I didn’t know how I felt about you.
“Do you think the person inside there died? Do you think it exploded?” you asked.
Even though we still had a long ride ahead of us, we stood around for a while, maybe a half-hour or so.
The landscape was flat and white, with a horizon so far away I couldn’t bring myself to believe in it. Against that backdrop, the truck stood out like a sore thumb. As we drove away and it disappeared behind us, I began to realize that seeing it had really meant something to you.
To me, it was just another piece of junk.