I rush to the dark green truck.

The small pickup, rust adorning the sides.

He helps me in, the truck too high...

A five year old me too small.

The memorable smell,

cologne, mint, and dirt.

The windows never close,

fresh air dances between us.

The plush, gray seats patched and worn.

The floor dirty, torn with mud.

The windows, always dull and smudgy.

I get to sit shotgun.

Like father, like daughter.

Two peas in a pod, already best friends.

Thought to be forever best friends.

Perhaps it's just a coincidence,

but ever since he sold that old truck,

we've never been the same.

The friendship is long forgotten.