James Taylor strums his guitar. Those dusty lyrics, he deals them across the nonsensical stereo still proud in our living room three decades after Tim bought tall, Radio Shack speakers. Quad sound.
Don't you cry for me...
Life is changing. Always it's true, but today I feel it. I don't come from Alabama, but I do love a banjo on someone's knee. And I still weep inside when a young family disintegrates.
Well, it rained all night, the day I left, the weather was bone dry...
So cold inside. Two funerals this past month. Now a divorce. The little children.
We fail. My promises unfurl like old cassettes -- the shiny brown tape within, we used to tighten it twirling a ball point pen, when the music got wavy.
Susannah, don't you go on and cry...
Tears hide like balled dust in my stomach. I hum. The swiped furniture looks better. Because I'm limited, I don't go to Louisiana. Perhaps I should have. Could have made a difference...?
Well, I had myself a dream the other night, when everything was still...
I ache for those who took the risk. I followed them online. Loving their image, I failed to know them. Because they shattered, I mouth the words, a ragged voice. Then whispering, a prayer.
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4 comments:
oh, I literally ache with this telling.
Life's potent emotions, like these, sometime seem like entities all on their own. Such power. Power in your words, too, Deanna. I sometimes wonder if, when we ache so for others, it somehow lightens the ache for them? I'd like to think so, but sadly, I don't think it does. Yet, we ache anyhow.
You are a good person.
Breaks my heart -- not because of vicarious sentimentality -- because of recognition. In the particular, you have written the universal.
I appreciate the three of you aching with me, very much.
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