I’ve told my story of Mr. Red in different fashions over the years. There’s the short and sweet version and then the more emotional version, either way I can’t say either version is me telling the full truth because they both water down the synesthesia side of the story. I did this because I was, and still am, embarrassed. I wanted to be able to share my work and I knew I would never feel comfortable doing that if it involves telling people about my synesthesia. So I always told it as a little girl with an imaginative mind, who just liked a truck. At times I convinced myself that that was the whole story, but I know it’s not. So now I’m here to tell it.

     Mr. Red was a 36 year old man. He was about six feet tall and had short, dark brown hair. His voice was low and soft. His eyes were always squinted as if he were constantly staring into the sun. His beard seemed to permanently be in the not shaved, but not a full beard, stage. It was scratchy to the touch. His clothes were usually torn or muddy, and sometimes when smiling at the ground a strand of his hair would fall in front of his face. He was perfect. On sunny days he would joke with me as we drove, showing me the pretty sights out my window. And when night fell he kept quiet and allowed me to fall asleep in his comfort. 

     We loved to go to the beach. It felt like he couldn’t run unless there was some sand on his floors. I’d load him up with boogie boards, sand castle molds, towels, snacks, kites, and a volleyball. He’d joke with me and say

     “Are you sure you’re not forgetting anything?” At the beach I'd jump out and grab all my stuff. He’d remind me to put on sunscreen as I ran off and I’d pretend I didn’t hear him. And there he would sit watching us enjoy our time at the beach. I continuously tried to body surf the waves and mostly would fail. After a good surf I’d look at Mr. Red, if I could see him, and he’d smile at me. It was so easy to find pride in his eyes. On our drives home he would give me a sly smile and say ”We might have to get some ice cream, you think?” And of course I’d agree with him. Then I’d wake up the next morning and we’d go on new adventures.

     I never really noticed when he started to get older. Maybe I was too caught up on myself, or maybe I didn’t want to notice. Maybe he was good at hiding it. When my dad told me he was in bad shape the first thing I thought was we’ll fix him. No other options occurred to me. As far as I was concerned Mr. Red was my truck, not my truck for the time being. I never thought that my time with him had an end date, and now all of a sudden I was being told it was coming up? When I saw him he was a darker red than usual and it broke me. He knew what was happening and was accepting it. How? How can someone so easily accept that they are being given up on? How can they easily accept that their worth has gone down? When he saw me he brightened, but not to his normal shade, more of an imitation of his coloring. He was trying to be strong for me. How can someone accept the end of a once endless friendship? I think it’s only possible if that someone truly loved you. I always knew he did, but at times I have to admit I did question it. I understood that a girl loving a truck the way I did was rare, but what about the truck loving the girl back? I would have to imagine that's unheard of. Perhaps it would be better if he didn’t love me. Then this could have been easier for him. It could have been easier for me. 

     I tried to hold in my tears in front of him. As soon as he looked up at me they all escaped. One after another they fell. He didn’t speak. I sat with him. I felt his warmth surround me as I continued to sob. His voice was soft and soothing as he whispered “It’s ok“. I didn’t know what to do with myself. There he was, old and rusty, being removed from his family, being given up on by his family, comforting me. I hated myself. He was always there for me and in the moment when he needed me, when it should have been my turn to be there for him, he cared for me. I wasn’t strong enough to be his shoulder to cry on. Of course I know he doesn’t blame me, but he comforted me in a time when he needed to be comforted. And that shows who he was to me. He was family. He cared for me deeply, selflessly, and irrevocably. That’s how it was, for days leading up to the last. I’d sit with him and we’d talk. Other times we were silent. 

     Our last minutes together will never slip from my memories. The day they do will be the day I forget myself. The tears falling from my face in front of the unknown strangers wanting to take him. I wanted to stay with him, to refuse to get up, but Mr. Red's soft voice is one that is not possible to disobey.  As my hands brushed back and forth against his fuzzy seats and my lungs breathed in his scent for the last time, Mr.Red brought me one more feeling of complete warmth.

    “Of course I love you.” He signed to me as I got the sudden urge to leave him. Tears were a constant as I left. Pain was a constant as I stayed gone. Time truly is the only thing that can heal any wound. However time is what had caused my wound, therefore I show it no gratitude. You can’t out run time, no matter how hard you try, all you end up doing is wasting it.

     I am aware that to most my life with Mr. Red is nothing but a special little girl talking to herself.  However, I have given up on Mr. Red once and live to deeply regret, wishing I had fought more. So I cannot accept that my time with him was a fantasy. I cannot just dismiss all the kindness he had shown me, and all the times he cared for me simply because it's not supposed to be possible. I hold strongly to my experiences with him and refuse to let time corrupt my memories.