Sunday

Bobby


I started calling him Bobby a couple of years ago, a way of keeping him close when so many would have made him an idol or a god (although god-dylan sounds a bit too close to godzilla to work really well).  With this new prize I think I'll need to keep him Bobby more than ever.

I walked into my life with him always around somewhere, background mostly but around.  He came and went, like most men in my life, but had a way of showing up fresh and with something important to say that had not been said that would make me love him all over again.  Like the time a couple of years ago I turned on the radio to hear him singing about having stayed in Mississippi a day too long.

Every part of me broke hearing those words.  How strong the hold a place can have on a person. Especially a place like the South, where there's never been a really good reason to stay.  I cannot adequately explain to myself or anyone else why I have or the price I have paid to do so but I didn't have to when I heard those words.  He knew.

He knew too, all the terrible and beautiful prices we pay to love, how ridiculous the whole affair, take your pick, so often is. All the same, he knows the wondrous storm and soothe of our bed. He knew the madness of war, of greed. He knows exactly who the monsters are with their eagerness to tie you to a dreadful life just to turn that dime.  He knows who has been betrayed and why. He knows all our stories, which ones are true and how important to us the ones that aren't.

After all these years I'm still walking into my life, into my story.  And Bobby... he's still here.  I won't be at all surprised to find him writing out these next few chapters.  Both of us making them up as we go.