Tree limbs waved in the wind. In the distance, dogs barked. A cat crossed the road. Semis shook as they carried their loads down 41. She watched the clouds from her back door.

In the driveway sat an old Ford pickup. Rust was around the bottom of the bed. The doors creaked when opened and closed. It’d been a while since she’d been in it.

The last time was a trip ‘cross country. She and her husband took I-80 through America. Traveled from Ohio to Oregon. Celebrated when they got to the end with a six pack of beer and Ritz Crackers; small pieces of trail bologna they picked up in Iowa were placed on top.

They thought about staying there. Had nothing tying them down. But, they wanted to see more of this great country. They drove to Nevada, Utah, Colorado, down south to Texas, Arkansas, and Tennessee.

They talked the whole time about why they never had kids. Their childhood, liverwurst sandwiches. They just talked; not a moment of silence. Except when they slept in back; stars above. He’d point out the big dipper; wished on shooting stars.

That was years ago, she thought. He’s gone now. Never coming back, she said to herself. Only one love in a lifetime like that, she lit a cigarette.

Tree limbs waved in the wind.