(key of C)

One of the writing tools I try to employ is to attempt to put myself inside other people’s shoes and tell their story the way I might have experienced it (e.g., “Mary”, “Bus 152″, “One Horse Town”). Though it feels natural as a writing technique, empathy, nonetheless, challenges me in very healthy ways. For this experiment in empathy, I, instead, put myself in my own size 9.5 shoes some 40-odd years in the future. It is an attempt to reconcile myself to not only my own mortality, but that of my best friend. I am trying to imagine and explore the taxing of a widowed soul. I have a healthy awareness – sometimes too aware - of my own “falling asleep” and scarce can take in the thought of life without my wife, Danielle. I respectfully fear death as I would a rattlesnake nipping at my tender heels. This song is for lost loved ones.

please forgive me if I don’t say much
we were a quiet couple and we talked by touch
I never thought this day would come
when I would be alone

married under heaven in ‘97
we thought the world complete that second
but grief’s a cold and lonely weapon
that I don’t want to own

September Sunday is on my clothes
she gave the dream inside me all its hope
she cried her eyes out, she smiled her joys
and now the woman, the woman is in my voice

there’s no real way to say goodbye
45 years is most of one’s life.
I, myself, am scared to cry
‘cause then I leave you here.

now our bed is far too cold
all I’ve got are the sheets to hold.
is this the part where I let go
and love you in my winter dreams?

September Sunday is on my clothes
she gave the dream inside me all its hope
she cried her eyes out, she smiled her joys
and now the woman, the woman is in my voice
September Sunday