11/14/20
I’m sitting in the front seat of your truck watching you. You’re meticulously exploring through bins of records in some shady, industrial warehouse. The loading gate is open allowing me a glimpse inside. Your gaze is fixed. You’re not looking for anything in particular, just anything that will make you smile, remember. With each gentle flick of your finger, memories materialize. Late night trips to Newbury Comics and Tower Records fade in and out. You have coupled music to every piece of our relationship and life; a beautiful, chaotic, tumultuous soundtrack of us. You hold your discoveries as gentle as you did our babies. You protect your music, and for the first time I understand why. Those songs and melodies are proof of your past or glimpses of your future. Almost an hour has passed. I don’t mind. You’re feeding your soul while I write, listen to Fleetwood Mac, sip tea and feed my own. When we return home later, you will play your music for me, for our kids, for our neighbors (whether they like it or not) and for yourself, adding to our bitter sweet symphony.
11/20/20
I’m the dusty, mismatched batteries you find in the back of the junk drawer on Christmas morning. I work just enough to make that new toy light up or turn on and bring a smile or two. Luckily attention wanes because my charge is weak. The lights dim and the sounds become low, jumbled and drawn out. I need recharging. I need to plug in and unplug from schedules,homework assignments, laundry, cooking, cleaning, sports sign-ups, practices, IEPs, meetings, lesson plans, Google meets, hydrating, eating healthy, moving more, arguments, emails, text messages, social media, politicians, Covid and worrying. Too much to maintain. My energy is almost gone. Maybe if someone takes me out, spins me around and puts me back in, I’ll work for a little longer.
bean láidir 