Mother's Lament
Once upon a time ...
You held a love so strong and fine ...
That all the others simply don't compare.
Dorothy Smallhouse always liked the old songs by Dan Fogelberg. Not that this particular song was all that old (the album had come out in 1977, so it hadn't even hit the decade mark yet) but with the music scene changing like it did and Dan's music getting less play on the radio, the song seemed distant and ageless, like a ghost wandering the shadows along that lonely stretch of I-5 between Rusty's Diner and her home on South Tacoma Way.
It had been the typical late night waiting tables at Rusty's, the regular crew of truckers pinching and grabbing her and Dorothy acting like she enjoyed it so as not to lose a tip. She did not know if the act made her tips any better, but at least they were no worse, and the way things were with her right now, she could not afford to risk offending even one of the piggish truckers who slapped her behind or stared at her breasts.
Her shift had ended at three a.m., and after counting all of the change from her tips in the break room, she was pleased to discover her haul was about seven dollars more than normal. Not enough to buy a new dress, but enough for a few beers on her next day off.
Now, she was heading home. Driving home in the dark was her special time.
She was never in a hurry after work, rolling up I-5 at a placid pace, and she played her one Dan Fogelberg cassette to both remember and forgot. It was an old cassette; Big Buddy had gotten it for her as a birthday present nine years ago, making it ancient in terms of the durability of audio tape. For those nine years, it remained Dorothy's favorite, and she had played it many times-especially this particular song. Wear on the cassette had made Dan's voice muffled and distant, adding to the unearthly, ancient effect.
She's always on your mind ...
But once upon a time ...
You had her there.
It was a song of passion and heartbreak, and even after listening to it for the thousandth time, Dorothy could not hold back her tears. This night was no different. I-5 was fairly clear for Friday night (Saturday morning), and Dorothy limped the old Dodge Mirada along in the slow lane. She turned up Dan Fogelberg loud enough to mask the steady time-bomb tick of the engine (something Buddy had promised to look at but never did), and she watched the world swim as the first drops of moisture rimmed her eyes.
Once upon a time.
Yes, once upon a time, she had held a love so strong and fine.
And all the others simply did not compare.
Dorothy reached into the glove box for the last remnants of Kleenex. Her fingers groped in the dark but came up short, so she wiped her eyes with the lapel of her waitress's uniform, the flap that folded back like a man's sport's jacket. The dress was the color of light ochre, and she knew she would leave a mascara stain that would have to be cleaned before her next shift.
But she did not care.
She blinked and slowed and sang along with Dan Fogelberg.
When the song was finished, she rewound the tape to listen to the song again.
* * * *
The house on South Tacoma Way was quiet when Dorothy walked into the kitchen from the back door that led to the alley. That in itself was odd. Without fail, she was always greeted by the sound of the TV in the front room, usually the "flapping gums" (Big Buddy's term for sports anchors) on ESPN blathering about some obscure sport that only got coverage after midnight.
