1983

Tonight again I miss something we had, the je ne sais quoi from 1983. Togetherness. A bit wild we were in an America no longer the same, and I was a kid only ten... smell of petrol and tools, and cars that broke down, water that froze in the pipes in the winter, seasons we spent without cell phones. And where will we go when the earth meets the flow of the sea? Storms and long thaws, and it was never easy but we had eachother, laughing and bitching and fighting. I cried and I sulked when I couldn't get my way. We ran ourselves ragged by the end of each day, and tired at night all slowed to half  the pace, then half of half the pace - then a resurgence as the kids put to bed, the ice I heard clinking in the cocktails, new laughter arose and I wanted to be anything but tucked in, and found any excuse to go out to Mom and be with her then. Back to bed now, go on! The music stops playing and all is quite silent while under the water, heat lightning flashes the sky to highlight these tides, seen through the screens of the porch. The wind whistles.

We won't care so much when our senses our gone and an unbroken dawn cracks and poaches its whites by the sea, I promise, the rolling is fun and into the sun with the elements the same and no one to blame, neither you, neither me. The loss was magnificent and tragic, and you may never love that way again. And again we won't care so much having been there, in the sharp cutting glare where all is exposed as a life that has died as life always does, again and again, and again. So push up your hair with your hands, see where it stands, and roll your eyes all around the earth. You will see that we share an uncommon bond, untouched by time and strong as the vine, and wide as the sea may be long, so you can smile and laugh, sing a sweet epitaph, and roll your tongue merrily along under the names of the ones you have loved, again and again, and again. In memoriam, 1983.