My first husband, Scott, had an old Ford, F-150. The truck is not so old that it has become collectible or in any way unique. No power windows, no power door locks, no CD player; but she is strong, dependable, and reliable in a crunch. That old truck reminds me a lot of my husband.
When Scott died, I kept the pick-up. In the days after the loss, I would climb into the front seat, sit alone, and let the numbness wash over me. Other times I would slam the door and cry or curse depending on my mood, but I rarely drove it, and as the months and years passed, the truck sat mostly vacant and idle in the driveway.
When I met my second husband, Tim, he bonded with the truck. He changed the oil, bought new tires, had the dent fixed where the mailbox had T-boned me one hectic morning years prior. He washed her, waxed her, steam-cleaned the interior, and he drove her (apparently it is not good to let a vehicle sit too long without being run. Who knew?)
That old truck has hauled dirt, and gravel, and camping gear. Furniture, dogs, and children. She is a one-ton pick-up but one miraculous afternoon, Tim loaded her with a ton and a half of flagstone, and she carried it without complaint.
I like to think that the two men I love most have bonded over that old Ford. They have gotten to know each other through that truck, created a relationship, and an understanding. They both saw her value and her beauty. They both cared for her, admired her. Both of these amazing men have repaired her and me.