Leaving

Each night, a truck stops before my door, motor running, headlights on, the driver, barely seen, stares straight ahead, the hum has awakened me, I’m at the window asking myself if the driver will move at last, if he’s bringing me a package or coming to get me, the night is alive with the presence of this truck, unmarked, with no distinctive colour, the driver is waiting for me to come out, for me to open the door and sit in the passenger seat, but to go where? Why do I suddenly feel that this strange and anonymous trip would alter everything, that the dawn arriving would be rosier than all the heartrending roses of my life, and that the following day would be my day of truth, the fulfillment of my fatigue, perhaps the epilogue for my sorrows great and small? Translated from the French by Donald WinklerThe post Leaving first appeared on The Walrus.