The Taken Truck

When we lose touch with reality, what becomes of our nightmares? Do we know when we are awake and when we are asleep?

I'm sitting on the couch in my grandmother's front room, the exact same spot that I've been returning to in my trips to Ridgecrest. The corner of the couch looks relatively clean.

Grandma says, "It broke my heart when I lost my truck."

"Why?" I ask, interested in how she deals with emotional setbacks. Is she even aware of her own feelings? Can she process them when she hardly remembers five minutes at a time?

"Because I couldn't afford it." She then begins a story about how much the maintenance costs added up because of the wind and dust out in the desert fouling up the engine and filters.

There isn't much truth to her talking. My mother recently balanced her checkbook, and she had close to $9,000 untouched in her accounts, more than enough to pay off the truck completely. But I don't argue with her. She's lost in the hazy, blue fog of her worst nightmares.