I get that strange feeling of being watched. I drive through your neighborhood every day and I think you know it. I think you know when. Maybe not every day, but some days you see me. You're out running errands, coming back from school, going to drop something off perhaps, or grab groceries for dinner and you look up and see my truck go by. I don't know what you think about when this happens. I don't know if you smile, frown; maybe look away. I don't know if you laugh at how I put my hand on the steering wheel. I wonder if you compare my old truck to the other, nicer cars surrounding me. Maybe you think back on the friendship we had, the laughs we shared, the connections made.
I don't. I just keep on driving.
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