It's now four in the morning. I've been behind the wheel of this
damn truck for over six hours now. You're sleeping in the passenger seat, as you have been since we crossed the border into
Ohio. That was well before it started snowing, causing the
interstate to become one solid sheet of black ice. I ran out of wiper fluid a while ago, and the
windshield is now a piece of glass crusted with salty road spray.
The road is taking us down a hill, and I'm terrified that this unfamiliar behemoth is going to spin around on me, or drive itself into a ditch, or just do something crazy that I won't be able to save us from. To add to this harrowing moment, almost everything that I own is packed in the back of this beast. Furniture and antiques from my grandfather's house. Boxes full of things that I packed up four or five years ago, and never bothered to open again. One wrong move out here on this deathtrap of a road, and it will be time for the trash heap.
I wish that you were awake right now; At least I would have someone to complain to. You're always good at putting up with my shit, and trying to calm me down. Last week, when we flew to Albany, you sat there holding my hand as I went off on United employees. You tried to calm me down as I tried to contort myself into a business class seat that obviously didn't have enough legroom. You hugged me when my nicotine fit took over my brain and made the whole world uncomfortable.
You loaded up the truck this morning when I threw out my back and couldn't move anymore. You drove the first part of this trip, and gave me time to recover. You do so much for me, and I'm completely lost for a way to repay you. I'm so glad that you are my wife.
Even now, no matter how much I miss you, I let you sleep. I will fight off the evil ice and wind to make sure that we get home in one piece, together. I love you. I hope you're dreaming of me.