Dear Daren: Take me back to the kind living room of your old house and with the turning of the pages of the Book of Revelations and the soft accompaniment of the Byrds. With Leslie languorously lounging on the davenport and the smell of foul grass burning in the kitchen.
Dear Daren, kind Daren, tell me how it is when you wear your navy blue coat and hounds-tooth stove pipes. Tell me of Parkdale and the days of the dance. Tell me openly now how it was in the living room with others coming over, when coffee was ready and cookies were secretly taken from the empty cookie jar, and Harley would fume and we all would scatter wide to avoid his ancient wrath.
Oh how I have lost touch with time and I have lost touch with reality. Was I in your living room just last week or last night or have I yet to return there? A place that showed so much love when I was so young and needed it most.
And I think that I shall believe that I have rationalized my existence and my actions off the face of this earth for I no longer live by past ideals and I no longer seek that which I desired most when I was seventeen.
Am I older or am I living in the past?
Oh Daren, wise Daren. Tell me how your mother removed the warts from your hands and you at six, with your growling tongue would press your tight fist against your jaw and moan with the roaring trucks as they tumbled off small ledges of rocks that were mountains and through colonies of giant ants and frozen laneways. Tunnels of snow with mountains on top and all trails led to the house. They would lead to the warmth and the strength and security of someone who knew what they were doing. To the love and the gentleness of someone who always helped you when you cried. And to them and from them you ran until your dream was shattered as they lay dead in a day and could no longer help you...and your dreams all lay shattered.
And all you remembered was the music of the Byrds and the words from the Book of Revelations.
I still have the record.
YOU ARE READING
We Lack a Word
شِعرA COLLECTION OF RHYTHMIC PROSE AND POETRY "The reader forms an attachment to the author/narrator as the parts meld into a story. The majority of the work is one - to two-page vignettes that create almost a novel in verse... Absorbing, an other...
