At least, at some point in the not-so-distant past it was a truck. Now it is little more than a pile of metal in the shape of a truck.
The vehicle sits abandoned, stripped of its paint, its instruments and anything of any remote use. With its parts removed, so is its purpose.
It’s midmorning and the sun has already started pounding once again upon its hull. Dulled, sand-blasted and sun-baked, it lay slightly tilted in the field next to a pile of old metal poles. They are its only companions.
There is an air of sadness here that isn’t easily explained. It seems as though it knows the days ahead are fewer than those behind.
How did this truck finally find this spot to rest? It’s imbedded in the ground up to its chassis as if it planted roots. It’s as if it said, “Enough already. This is where I’m staying.”
One can almost sense wariness from the old girl upon approach. Curiosity has gotten the better of me. I can’t resist. The area is secure and my reason for being here is a bit of a bust anyway.
Camera in hand, I approach her and ask if it’s all right if I look around.
I don’t get a response, not a discernable one anyway.
The camera loves her. The elements have worn away all glamour and flair she once had. There is only the core of what she was. I look closer.
The seats are gone. She has no engine. Even the instruments and steering wheel are gone. I figure they were put to good use elsewhere, but I will never know.
The obliging organ donor bids me a bit closer. I reach out.
The metal is hot and rough. The sun and wind have certainly taken their toll, but the core is sound. It does not give.
I lean in and gaze through the windshield, or lack thereof. I’m looking through her eyes, so to speak.
She watches over a barren field to a distant site where Iraqi-Based Industrial Zone workers have staked their claim and set up shop by COB Adder. It’s as if she’s watching over them.
Is there hope in the cab of this old truck?
She’s a relic of the past, abandoned for whatever reason under circumstances which I may never know. She sits on this spot keeping vigil over a prospect for the future. Is this irony within an iron chassis?
There is a kinship here that I regretfully accept. I had resigned myself to the reality that I wasn’t getting any younger. My past has taken a toll on me and all I really have to count on is the core of who I am.
The wind has picked up a bit and stings my eyes. They water and I wipe them quickly on my sleeve. It was just the wind . . . really.
A truck pulls up. It’s a lot newer and still has years of life before it. My compatriots are waiting for me to leave. I don’t want to, but even I realize that the past is the past for a reason. It’s not now.
I climb into the shiny silver pick-up and shut the door. I take one last look back at the old girl and smile.
I felt she had no purpose anymore. Now, I’m not so sure. She resumes her vigil over the field as we start to pull away.
I too, have a field to watch over and I need to get back soon.
I could swear that truck is smiling back at me.
I may have been out in the sun too long.
CONTINGENCY OPERATING BASE ADDER, Iraq – On a dusty stretch of road just outside Contingency Operating Base Adder, rests this old truck.
