My brother was a long-haul trucker. He died last month in a rest stop off I-70.
I drove three hours to clear his motel room. The manager handed me the key on a plastic diamond tag.
The room smelled of Folgers and highway exhaust. On the nightstand was a takeout menu from a diner down the road.
The margins were covered in his handwriting. 'Ma - extra pickles.' 'Dad - no onions.' 'Sis - fries well done.' My name was there for a turkey club.
I remembered the day he took my training wheels off. He ran beside me on the gravel, hollering 'You got it!'
He let go and I didn't fall for twenty feet. That was the last time I felt completely safe.
I folded the menu into my pocket. It's in my dispatch console now. When the calls get heavy, I touch it.