- I don't know much about my dad, except that he didn't know his father, either.(C) 2010 Generations, by Arissa Freeman
There's this man who made his guitar sing last weekend on River Street. He was unplugged, all blues and soul. I ran into him while holding hands with a man I've known longer than anyone else in town besides my family. When I looked into his eyes that night, I realized there was so much about him I never knew. I've never met someone twice before. It's nice.
There was a woman who made me rethink my own worth for a split second. I thought I finished doing that in my 20's. Thought I had been through enough to write my own price tag. But there I was, about to sell myself short, again.
There's a little girl I worship who doesn't understand why I get upset when she climbs too high. Her father is probably where she gets it from, because he's never learned to keep his feet on the ground. They will never understand why I have worry wrinkles on my forehead over them. I could never understand my mother's stress habit, either, but I sympathize now.
I'm reflecting on these past couple weeks as I listen to a kick-ass man making his guitar sing on YouTube. He's electric, all blues and soul.
Who am I? I'm the plant, taking it all in, deciding which of the things I've absorbed I will let back into the atmosphere, and what I will keep to myself. Tonight I can't do any better than that. I'm just in awe of things.
If you've ever felt like you've traveled for miles only to end up essentially in the same yard, just with sore feet, you'll understand where I'm coming from tonight.
I know--if all I'm doing is walking a circle, I'll throw salt behind my every step, and hope when I come back around the path is a little more sanctified.