An Earnest Prayer

It tickles me - watching you take care of that RV older than dirt. Wiggling into your ragged Carharts, you gingerly open the door, never knowing exactly what you’ll find. The thing lives broken down in the mountains, after-all. 

Will it be a mice infestation? Broken windows? A water leak? You handle each with grace, knowing she is old but she is yours. You painstakingly patch her back up, wipe her clean, vacuum all of her nooks and crannies so she might have a fighting chance to continue down the road for a few more years - or, let’s be honest, at least get off this damn mountain top. 

She doesn’t run right now, but you’re hopeful that, with the right fuse, a new battery, or an earnest prayer, her engine will hum again, pushing the tires over dirt towards another adventure. 

I expected you to be interesting but I wasn’t prepared for you to be captivating. I could watch you for hours, even doing something as mundane as cleaning out a banged up motor home. You make it look loving. You make everything look loving. 

One day, she’ll run again. I just know it. Something loved that much, cared for with all of the heart and all of the soul, it can’t fail. It just can’t.