On the road going anywhere, I am free. My burgundy Dakota is the best place to be in the world. It can take me anywhere I want to go, let me see anything I want to see, and it helps me enjoy the journey along the way. Occasionally I can smell what it used to be like and can smell my grandfather’s sweat. It reminds me of all the hard work he put into his job, his church, and his family. The leathery smell of the new wheel cover is strong and always stays on my hands even after leaving. The steering wheel itself is marked and scratched from use. The seats are worn and cracked with age. The shifter’s original smooth finish has worn off, leaving a rough knob in its place. Loose control switches adorn the door panels. The original cigarette lighter is always in its proper place, just above the newly installed radio. The headlining is no longer collapsed, the floor mats no longer halfway destroyed, but newly replaced when I received the truck. In the back window is my rifle rack sometimes doing its intended purpose, sometimes not. The most important thing though, is not a radio, not a lift, not a ridiculous sound system, but two small metal objects hanging in the mirror. One is one of my grandfather’s dog tags, which he wore in his dedicated service life and tours of Vietnam. The other is a brass shell casing, fired at his funeral.