Ruminations from Greensboro

Greensboro, N.C. The company had me bring my empty trailer up here from Monroe (around 100 miles), then told me to bobtail to the terminal. No one knows why. I got here yesterday about the time my dispatcher went home, so I’m hoping that when he comes in this morning, maybe he knows why I’m here.
I’m hopeful enough to note that there are a lot of new trucks sitting around. But that’s a foolish hope. I’ve only been back with the company since last November, and just coming back from a month-long hiatus.
I can’t think of any other reason they would want me on the terminal. Unless I failed my drug test, which is impossible. Although I’m paranoid enough to realize that I did drink that double-shot of rum that the neighbor brought over to me. If there were any drugs in my system, that’s the only way they could have gotten there.
Well, whatever it is, I won’t know until my dispatcher comes in. Luckily, being somewhat depressed helps one to sleep (and pass the time).
On that note, I should mention that I had already been down yesterday. Then Mara called, asking about the van. She seemed like she wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say. I felt the same. It pains me to admit that hearing her voice will always be like a warm hug to me. It’s a shame that I never meant to her what she meant to me.
However that may sound, I could never get back together with Mara. If I had ever considered such notions, living in limbo for a month while I packed away my home put a severe damper on it. Walking around that dark, empty house with tears in my eyes the night I left, chanting “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” to Loretta’s ghost put an end to any notions of reconciliation.
Not that there have really been any such notions. Except for the day she came bouncing in and carted off a few boxes of her things early on, and the evening I asked her for copies of the paperwork on the house, I heard nothing from her during this whole torturous process of packing. Not a word. At least in the last three weeks. And as I discovered item after item of her childhood belongings (things that should be precious to her) among piles of her discarded notes and old bills, it only made me realize how truly fucked up she is.
Mara will always have my sympathy, and even some pity. But she will never again have my love and regard. At least not in the same way. I was married to her for eight years. So there will always be a certain amount of affection. But I would be a fool if I didn’t realize that, even as much as it cost me, it’s probably a good thing to be clear of the wreckage.

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