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The Photo

There is a photo. A photo of me and my great grandfather. In a pickup truck. I must've been two, going on three. He was holding me, I looked obviously distressed, as if I had been crying and was trying to escape.

Oddly, as young as I was, I remember distinctly how the inside of the truck smelled. Of road dirt and musky man smells. Dirty. I remember how the seat cover felt, and more so how my little guts felt in those moments I was alone in the pickup with that man.

I feel ill when I look at that photo. It makes me physically sick to my stomach.

Something bad happened in that truck, that day, when I was with my great grandfather. My guts tell me that to this day.

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