Carys Comma

My Daughter,

I wrote this in 2005. Perhaps one day you will be able to tell me what it means,

Dada

Mascara

And the bells clang for you as I sit at the piano without a song to play. But the bells don’t say as much as bad golf and the falling leaves. The bells don’t speak as loudly as the apple cider and the running mascara, drifting down the face of someone too young to have memories that horrify.

And the church organ plays for you, but it doesn’t get it quite right. For there is more than the notes and pipes, there’s the passion and the poem about a ruthless, savage wordsmith just trying to be alone.

You want to talk about it?

No.

Then why are you here?

I dunno.

And the preacher preaches, but he comes up short. He can yack all he wants but the real sermon’s when he stammers and stumbles and asks for help from a stranger passing by. But, the stranger is too busy – he has miles to go before he sleeps. Miles to go before he sleeps with a wife who is no longer impressed with his tweed jackets and creativity.

 And we all fall down to our sleep nights and beds and startling paranoia of the dark, where beautiful things live and wait to be tarnished by the resentments of our minds.

You ever tell your parents how you feel?

No.

Why not?

I dunno.

And I don’t know either. But, when I wake to bells, organs and stammering preachers on the air; I know  that none of it comes close. I’m just along for the ride.