Lucy plays keyboard in a band. I could always hear her songs through the walls of her room. But she never sang loud enough to listen. She was keys all the way. We called her “Midas” cause she could make golden sounds from any piano she played. But Lucy doesn’t play piano anymore. Just keyboard for some punkass little band called “The Audio Readymades.”
But Lucy wasn’t always Lucy. In fact, at one point Lucy was actually Louie. And she wore her dead grandfather’s neckties and sweaters. And everyone told her she was going to hell but she wouldn’t listen anyway ‘cause she knew she’d have her own house far, far from here one day. And Lucy hid in the closet under the stairs like Harry Potter. And she wrote love songs about boys who never kissed her and boys who’d never admit they had. Lucy never was a singer or a writer. But she told beautiful stories to anyone willing to listen. And she had the most soothing voice.
And one summer Lucy showed me her secret spot in the woods. She called it “Narnia” and we played games in the trees leftover from the fire of ’98. And we built a kitchen from abandoned furniture and a fire from abandoned branches. And every morning I woke up to the smell of hot chocolate and of bacon sizzling on a pan in our kitchen. And this was our home. And we pretended that our house would last forever in the midst of the ashes and that nothing and no one could ever touch us.
There was one week when we refused to leave, and slept under the shelter of the moonlight. And every night before we fell asleep she would sing me a lullaby about whales lost in the ocean. And every night she reassured me, saying that they wouldn't be lost forever because of a special sound that all whales are born with. And Lucy said that the whales would find each other eventually through their magical noises.
Every night we closed our eyes and hummed whale sounds under the stars and pretended that our noises were magical too. And for seven starry nights, we didn't feel lost, or estranged, or all alone.
But Lucy wasn’t always Lucy. In fact, at one point Lucy was actually Louie. And she wore her dead grandfather’s neckties and sweaters. And everyone told her she was going to hell but she wouldn’t listen anyway ‘cause she knew she’d have her own house far, far from here one day. And Lucy hid in the closet under the stairs like Harry Potter. And she wrote love songs about boys who never kissed her and boys who’d never admit they had. Lucy never was a singer or a writer. But she told beautiful stories to anyone willing to listen. And she had the most soothing voice.
And one summer Lucy showed me her secret spot in the woods. She called it “Narnia” and we played games in the trees leftover from the fire of ’98. And we built a kitchen from abandoned furniture and a fire from abandoned branches. And every morning I woke up to the smell of hot chocolate and of bacon sizzling on a pan in our kitchen. And this was our home. And we pretended that our house would last forever in the midst of the ashes and that nothing and no one could ever touch us.
There was one week when we refused to leave, and slept under the shelter of the moonlight. And every night before we fell asleep she would sing me a lullaby about whales lost in the ocean. And every night she reassured me, saying that they wouldn't be lost forever because of a special sound that all whales are born with. And Lucy said that the whales would find each other eventually through their magical noises.
Every night we closed our eyes and hummed whale sounds under the stars and pretended that our noises were magical too. And for seven starry nights, we didn't feel lost, or estranged, or all alone.
Sam, I wrote this in my Modernism notes--can't study.
Also can't wait for you to visit :)
Love, Sam
Also can't wait for you to visit :)
Love, Sam
1 comment:
Sam,
I'm lying in your bed right now and you're drawing feet in the lounge and I don't want to go home to the real world tomorrow, but this was amazing and beautiful and I love it. I was going to ask where it was from, but then you wrote it!!
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