John McCullagh December 3, 2005

You sang along

To a song on the radio –

it was old, vintage stuff

nineteen sixties, I presume

the melody lingered in my head

as I ploughed through

City Hall records

pruning branches on my family tree.

Did I ever tell you that my grandfather

on my mother’s side was a blacksmith,

I desired a more exotic find –

a naval captain, or an art collector.

 

I wish I knew the name of that song

that you sang for days,

the tune spun wildly through my crowded head:

I hoped it was a new release

so that I could take it home

to give my thoughts eternal peace.

 

Music has that affect,

it plants tiny seeds of joy

that linger for weeks, sometimes years

just like stories from the past

bright, cold or dark, they stay with us

memories always last.

 

When you sing that song

I eat, breathe and smell the days

that we often hide away

put to bed: closure.

There will always be a past,

there will be history tomorrow.

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