A rosary that was my mother's tucked in the glove compartment of his car and a copy of Exile on Main Street with instructions to play track 6 when he hit some lonesome desert highway. I love him so much my chest hurts, thinking of him riding off into his own life, me the weeping shadow left behind (for now). I know I'll see him again but it's ceremony we're talking about after all— one growing up and one growing older both wild curses. A train blows its horn the light rising beyond the harbor, a dog barks from a car window and the nostalgia (always dangerous) hits me like a left hook. I'm trapped between the memory and the moment, the deal we make if we make it this long, the markers of a life, the small worthwhile pieces that rattle around in my pockets waiting to be set somewhere in stone. Copyright © 2017 Kevin Carey. Used with permission of the author. |
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