OldTroubador's blog post - But She's Not There

The alarms all start their clamoring at some God-awful hour. We wake up, grudgingly, and turn on the lights. Getting dressed, we keep bumping into each other and giggle. I start the paperwork while you straighten up the truck. Then hand in hand, we go inside to buy coffee and something to eat.
It is just barely morning, according the clock, but still dark. It is many hours until dawn and a few more hours of driving after that, just to make the delivery. I slip the clutch, and we start our trip.
Where are we and where are we going? It doesn’t matter because I have you by my side. We talk about life, experiences we have had; each story reminds us of another one. I tell you about some of the places outside the windows, sheltered by the dark. We speak of people we have known, other places we have been.
The windows are down, the breeze cool and refreshing, even in this part of the country and this time of year. We become quiet as the miles roll under the tires. During these quiet times, we can hear the cicadas and katydids calling to each other. We watch deer cropping the grass alongside the edges of the road. A coyote skulks across the highway, looking over its shoulder as if it had done something wrong, like coyotes often do.
We stop for fuel. As the diesel pours into the tanks, we listen to the sounds of a truck stop at night – engines rumbling, reefer units kicking on with a snort. Out on the highway, engine brakes rumble like distant thunder as another driver gears down for the exit. He too must fill his tanks with the lifeblood of the American highway. Off in the distance, a lonesome whistle blows.
Back on the road, we sip coffee and talk quietly. The night is long and wearisome, the concrete path we travel empty. Trees rush by the side windows then disappear as the headlights move along. Bugs splatter the windshield; we both jump as a big one hits and we laugh. The ride is relaxing; I have one hand on the wheel, the other on the stick shift. Your hand reaches out and rests on mine. I smile and so do you. We watch as a shooting star lights up the sky in front of us and we gaze in wonder.
The sky begins to lighten. You doze in your seat, your face peaceful and beautiful. I await the first rays of dawn to break forth, to shine through the front glass, to highlight your face, your smile. Your breathing is a gentle whisper, saying that all is well.
I have to stop once more before the trip is over. I wheel into another truck stop and park. I need to use the facilities, and maybe get some more coffee. The sun is warm on my face. I reach over to wake you, to ask you to walk in with me.
You are gone. The only things in the seat are my atlas and truck stop guides. The light of day reveals the truth that, even though I talked to you, listened to you, you were but a dream. You are gone, your image, your presence missing as if you never were. You drift away from me like the smoke from my cigarette blowing out the window. I felt your touch, felt the warmth of your hand in mine but now, you are gone. The last thing I see is your smile then, it too is gone.
Damn the dawn, damn the light. Damn the end to the night.