Monday, December 22, 2014

Rearview Reach

Maybe it was the thought of Joe Cocker's writhing limbs and his raspy voice silenced, or maybe it was the blue sky, the eighty degree day, and the flying down the 101. Maybe it was Sophie playing with the colored beads that hang from my head-rest, playing with them as if on automatic pilot (what, exactly does that mean?), their rustle, how damn long she can do it -- reach for the beads, rustle them together, let them fall through her fingers, reach for the beads, rustle them together, let them fall through her fingers, her pale face, wondering what she'd look like old. She's nineteen years old, got ways like a baby child, sang Muddy Waters.  A lover gave me a cassette thirty-two years ago, a love letter on tape. I remember the songs on the cassette, the tiny writing on the slip of paper slid into hard plastic. I don't remember where it went. The tape, the love. I wonder where it is.

Will I be driving her like this when I'm old? Will she be playng with the beads, like this, when she's old? But, here we are, and it's now.

This was then. Traffic's Empty Pages, Arlo Guthrie's Heavenly Shoes, The Byrds' Ballad of an Easy Rider, Van Morrison's Astral Weeks, John Lennon's Oh, Yoko, Roxy Music Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, Muddy Waters' She's Nineteen Years Old.

Reach for the beads, rustle them together, let them fall through your fingers.


  1. This is now.
    Perfectly beautiful, even in its hints of sorrows and lost love.

  2. I was kneeling in front of Katie yesterday morning, putting on her winter boots and I realized kneeling is harder than it used to be. And then I wondered what it will be like in twenty years when I'm 72.

    Sophie likes beads? Katie likes paper, ripping paper.

  3. The losses and sorrow seen to lean out a little further today. Some days they just do. xo

  4. She certainly looks intent on the now of those beads. I try not to think ahead, but I do. How can we not sometimes. xo

  5. This is seamed with sadness, yet you also manage to suggest that the antidote is the now. Live in the now. I wish so hard I could make things easier. This post is another one that makes me think on things I had no idea were part of the equation. You educate me. I know it helps not one whit but thank you. Sophie is ethereal and full of grace.

  6. Live in the now. My daughter has no short term memory with a seizure disorder, this is her everyday. Me, not so much. She is 33. Will I still be respectful to her when she asks me the same questions 20, 30, 40 times a day in twenty years? Too much to think about.
    Your writing is beautiful even when the circumstances are not.

  7. "But, here we are, and it's now." Ain't that the truth. Much love, always, and wishes for a happy Christmas, in the midst of the music and the beads and the loving and the letting go…

    (And thank you for your comment on my poem. Your thoughts on my writing mean a lot to me. I respect your talent so very much.)

  8. Beautiful! I miss handmade mix tapes like that, with their carefully lettered song lists. As for the beads, I understand why she does it -- they do feel good, don't they?

  9. Thanks for the reminder to be in the moment. I only need to be reminded every hour and this was my reminder for this hour. Much love to you.



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