May this be the year I remember as spent in the passenger seats of trucks, on parking lots, at gas stations. As cargo. Eating sunny snacks on the asphalt. Being offered tea, being offered bread, being offered fried eggs and chips and ham and noodles.

Even if it is only a few weeks I that may spend on the road, may I remember them, may I remember all the people, especially all the truckers who have brought me along. Who have taken care of me; cared for by a handful of people out of the seven billion.

May I remember the landscapes flying past, the high view over the wide highways. Whether they are French, Polish or German, whether it’s day or night, whether it’s flat fields or mountains or islands of light shimmering in rainy valleys.

May I remember all the goodness with which people have met me and all the made up languages: all the words tried and discarded from Latin, Slavic and Greek, from all imaginable roots. All the overwhelm in the unknown. All the hundreds of “no” received, both direct and in the eyes looking away; all the hundreds of “no” which all are worth the single “yes” from the stranger who becomes a friend the moment he shares with me his bread:

kompis, com pan, with bread. Companion.

I am soft, I am overwhelmed. I have done nothing to deserve this life. This one life.

May it always be as easy as “Do you want tea?” “Do you need to charge your phone?” “Where will you sleep tonight?”

I love you. I love you forever. From this place within me, this place that will always be here, this place of clear sky behind the clouds. I love you strongly, stubbornly, unconditionally. I want to give you my bread. I want to give you half of what I have and even if I only have a crumble, I want to share it with you.

From a sunny parking lot near the French-Spanish border.

With the breeze, with the movement of the reeds in my skull, rubbing between my ears. With the heavy trucks passing, this one parked with the door open, waiting for me.

I love you, my self. Yours, forever.

…

(This story told in pictures.)