Excerpt of Confessions From a Moving Van by Amy Neftzger

When most people look at an oil slick on the pavement, they see a black splatter and, if the light is just right, a rainbow of colors. I don't. I see words and stories. A simple blot on the road can speak volumes if you know how to read it. Oil slicks are a language of motion; an intimate discourse on change from one place to another.

What you're now reading is certainly not The Confessions of St. Augustine and I'm quite far from being a saint. In fact, I'm not even human. But the reality is that too often I've heard much more than people wanted any other person to know. Whether this is due to something inside me or something within people that causes them to unburden their souls when they're with me, I couldn't say. I don't completely understand it. However, most people can't seem to help talking openly to me. I listen quietly. In fact, I'm so good at listening and refraining from any kind of judgment that people hardly know I'm there. People often speak to machines as if we can't understand or respond, but we do. We speak your languages much more often than you speak ours.

Perhaps people know that I'm there to carry their physical burdens and so they instinctively release the emotional ones, as well. Whatever the reason, I know that moving always brings a portion of misery and there are always difficulties. There's no escape from that. It's a tiring ordeal for everyone, but perhaps more so for me. My load is the heaviest of all because I'm a moving van. No one carries more than me during times of transition.