When I was 19, I began driving freight. When childcare costs were too high, I decided to put a car seat in the truck and take Micah with me. He is two years old already, and he is smart, determined, and already knows more about radio-check procedures than some of the new staff. He enjoys the trip, even though it’s not a normal one. He is already two years old and is smarter, more determined, and better at radio-checking than some new hires.
He likes the road, even if it’s not very common. He likes the sound, the movement, and the steady beat of tires on asphalt. Are we being entirely truthful? Being near him helps with feeling alone.
We wear the same bright jackets, share food, and sing the same off-key songs all the time. Most days blend together, like truck stops, delivery docks, and times when you need to fill up.
But something happened last week near Amarillo.
We had stopped at a rest area not long before the sun went down. Micah sat on the sidewalk, singing to himself and playing with his toy dump truck as I checked the trailer straps.
Then, all of a sudden, he looked up at me and asked, “Mama, when is he coming back?”
I blinked. “Who, baby?”
Micah pointed at the cab. “The guy in the front seat.” He was here yesterday.
I paused.
We were all by ourselves. We are never with anyone else. The truck is only for you. Always.
I got down on my knees next to him. “What, Micah?”
He didn’t seem scared. Let’s pay attention to the small things. “The person who gave me the paper said it was for you.”
I checked out the cab. Nothing stands out. But when I entered the glove box later to get my logbook, it was there.
A piece of paper that has been folded.
Micah’s name is on the front.
And on the inside—
It was a picture.
The pencil work was simple yet very careful. It was a picture of Micah and myself sitting in the cab together. I was driving with one hand on the wheel and the other reaching behind to offer Micah an apple slice while he held his toy truck.
At the bottom, there was a note that said, “Keep going.” He is proud of you.
No name. No justification was given. That’s it.
I looked at it for a long time, and my heart raced like a drum. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I didn’t talk to Micah. I didn’t want to make him scared.
I folded it, put it in Vise, and tried not to shake so I wouldn’t feel the cold crawling up my back. Someone at the last stop may have gotten too close. It might have been a weird joke. It may not have meant anything.
But the next morning, when we were leaving Amarillo, I looked in the mirror at Micah. He kept staring toward the passenger seat, as if he hoped someone might be there.
I parked outside a diner in New Mexico that night. I didn’t sleep too well. I locked the taxi from the inside and wrapped my arm over Micah as he curled up next to me. I jumped at every sound outside.
The drawing disturbed me because it looked familiar, not because it was terrifying. The handwriting made me think of something I couldn’t quite remember.
Three days later, we got into bad weather around Flagstaff. It was hard to see, the roads were slick, and the hail was the size of marbles. I got to the truck stop early and chose to wait it out.
While I was filling up, an old man in a dirty flannel shirt walked up to me. His eyes were tired and his face was wrinkled, as if he had been through too many winters.
“Is that you with the little boy?” he inquired.
I nodded, and I was ready for anything.
He thought for a time and then added, “You should probably talk to Dottie inside.” She saw something strange yesterday. About your truck.”
I felt sick to my stomach.
Dottie was a short woman with silver hair and a glance that could make everyone in the diner stop what they were doing.
She looked at me and said, “You’re the driver with the kid?”
“Yes,” I said, my heart pumping. “What did you see?”
Dottie moved forward and wiped her hands on a towel. “I was shutting down last night. Your rig was parked at the back. There was a guy standing on the passenger side. He was tall, had a beard, and wore a denim jacket that was old and worn. It looked like he was talking to someone inside.
I took a look. “Nobody was there.” At that time, we weren’t even in the truck.
She raised an eyebrow. “Someone was there, though. I stepped outside to check on him, and poof! He was gone. He seemed to just go back into the blackness and disappear.
I had to swallow hard. “Did he leave anything?”
She came to a stop. “Come with me.”
She reached inside a broken mailbox next to the side door, which was near to where I had parked. “This was crammed in here this morning.”
It was a different piece of paper that had been folded.
There was no name on this one, but when I opened it, I saw another drawing: Micah resting on my chest and me crying while looking out the windshield.
The words below it declared, “You are not alone.” You weren’t.
My knees gave out.
I thanked her, but my voice was so weak that I could hardly speak. I walked Micah back to the truck with unsteady hands.
That night, I left the freeway and drove down a little dirt road. I needed some time to think things over. I needed some space.
After Micah fell asleep, I sat in the driver’s seat with the drawings in my hands and looked up at the sky in the desert.
And now it all made sense.
The way the lettering looked really caught my attention. The lines in the drawing are quite clear. The way Micah kept saying “he.”
It looked a lot like the pictures my brother used to draw when we were kids.
My older brother is Jordan. As I grew older, he always watched out for me. A drunk driver hit him on his way home from work six years ago, and he perished in the incident.
He never got to see Micah.
I started to cry so hard that my whole body shook. NoEditing Nigel, I don’t believe “believe” or “not.”2. I know it was him. “Thepession.” It was him.
Micah shuffled around in his sleep, said something I couldn’t hear, and then turned over with a smile.
I didn’t know what to say. Still don’t.
That night, things started to change.
The alterations were small but scary, like something out of a ghost story. There were no cold areas or lights that flickered. Just… signs.
Micah would tell me things like “Uncle Jo says slow down” right before I almost missed a turn or hit a patch of black ice.
I thought I had misplaced a toy, but I recovered it in the glove compartment.
And every now and then, another sketch would turn up, always when I needed it the most.
One day, when I was tired, broke, and contemplating about quitting after a very hard delivery in Missouri, I found one in Micah’s coloring book.
There was a picture of me close to my rig with the sun coming up behind me. And the phrase “Keep going.” You’re making something great.
I kept them all. There are now nine. Each one was like a quiet voice coming from a place far away from the noise, diesel, and dust.
The most recent one happened not so long ago, close to Sacramento.
We had stopped at a quiet rest place. I was tired. Micah was in a bad mood. I was asking myself a lot of questions again: if this was the right life for him, if I was harming him more than helping him.
When I opened the fridge in the cab, there was another letter taped to the milk container.
This time, the letter didn’t have any pictures in it. There was only one sentence in the letter.
“He’ll always remember how strong and loving you were.” The distance doesn’t matter.
That’s when I decided to tell this story.
I think the road sometimes gives back. The trip often happens in strange, quiet ways.
There are some things that can’t be put into words. And that might be okay.
I don’t know much else, but I’m still here. I still go on trips. I’m still doing my best to take care of Micah.
And sometimes, when the night is long and the freeway below us hums softly, I feel like I’m not alone.
I still think Jordan is in the passenger seat.
So if you’ve lost someone yet still feel them close, listen.
Look around.
You could potentially find a letter in the glove box.
And if you do, keep it.
Love doesn’t always go away. It merely goes to a different seat.
If this story spoke to you, please think about sharing it. Someone else might need to be reassured that they aren’t as alone as they think they are.
I’d love to hear about any sign you’ve ever seen, no matter how minor or strange it was.
Who knows? They could all be out there with us, riding next to us.
Let’s do it one mile at a time.