Jack and Diane

-
Were you just playing a John Mellencamp song...?

My inquiry was earnest, though filled with the confused stupor that follows an awakening from a deep, mid-afternoon nap. 

Equally confused, he replied "... I don't know anything by John Mellencamp..."

In a sedated, yet certain response I added ""Jack and Diane"... I thought you were playing that song..."

He stood quietly for a moment, curious, as I held a focused gaze, hands in my lap, staring at my fingers, gracefully interwoven.
 
It's the look he dubs the "1000 mile stare".

And I slowly came to. 

Came to realize my father wasn't playing a John Mellencamp song, and Lloyd wasn't either.  

I shouldn't have been surprised-  neither of the two men had ever played John Mellencamp before, so why would they now?

But in some lost space where fatigue and sleep meet, I had heard my father playing guitar and heard his voice- clear as day- singing the lyrics to that song, and upon awakening and realizing the impossibility of that, I assumed it had been Lloyd. 

But it was Sunday- the day where improbabilities and possibilities co-exist, I suppose.  

Sayler and I had unexpectedly fallen asleep side by side on our couch despite the bright sunlight that kissed our faces and begged us to come out and play. 

The nap was a welcome respite for us both. And as we napped, Lloyd retreated to his man cave-the garage- where he plays and records music at every chance available. 

And perhaps, despite our well-insulated walls dividing us, the echoes of his guitar permeated the walls enough for me to hear an amalgamation that sounded like Jack and Diane.  And perhaps, through those same walls, my father's presence filtered through the years that have kept us divided. 

Why that song? Why that lazy day? I'll refrain from asking the questions that have no answers, and instead welcome the blissful, if not confusing, melodies of songs that play, if only in my dreams- sung by those that I have loved.  To hear a recent playing of Jack and Diane


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

"Dear Bobby"

-
Image
"Dear Bobby, I love you. I always look forward to when my husband leaves for work, and you sneak into bed with me. Sometimes, you will wake me up, but usually, you just lie there next to me waiting for my eyes to open." Bobby. You are a cat. But you are the cat of all cats. Unliked some others whose names I will not mention.... you like being a cat. You are my original Obi Kenobi... But you don't like your name and insist I call you "Bobby" or "Bob". You are my predator. You can catch anything- including a rabbit almost twice your size. I remember the time you brought a baby possum into our home. I had just awakened and sleepily headed to use the bathroom when, peering from inside the toilet, was a little possum begging to be released. You cheeky bastard, Bobby. That poor possum. I scolded you and you just turned the other whisker, as if to say "look lady... I am a cat, that's how I do...." The other cats beg for forgiveness when ...
Read More

The Good Dancer: A Dating Story

-
Image
I once dated a really good dancer. That wasn't his only strength. In truth, he was one of thee absolute best dudes I ever made out with.  He was super funny, smart and we clicked right away. But what struck me as odd was that, for the first time before and since, his good dancing skills didn't turn me off.  (For some reason, a man with too much swagger on the floor has always confused and frightened me a little.)  Oh, and I also don't like when they are so involved in their dancing that they forget you are on the floor with them.  Oh, and when they A. crowd you or B. use you as a prop.  Oh, and when they sing along to songs by female artists.  If you know all the lyrics to "I'm a Slave for You", that's both impressive and embarrassing. (I really did have strange deal-breakers with men...) So here was the first guy who I enjoyed dancing with that was actually a really good dancer.  He didn't crowd.  He didn't sweat profusely.  H...
Read More

Degree

-
Image
It was on Friday night. We laughed a lot, perhaps made delirious by the sweet smell of men that were familiar-yet-elusive and desirable. It could have been the wine,  it could have been the great company of old friends and conversations and shared opinions with other women. I disagreed with Ariel more than once, though... "Too sweet" or.... "smells like a jelly bean...." The ones I couldn't put down were the ones that smelled like a man's deodorant, hidden among 75+ samples that scattered in baskets around the coffee table. There we sat around a table full of scents as we sampled the fragrances from a friend's Scentsy collection, eager to fill out our order forms for the smells that would soon promise to envelop our homes. I opted for the "Iced Pine" option, which always reminds me of the home I have not yet lived in and lingered around the fragrances that smelled of citrus and orange peels.  The idea of the smell of "Orange...
Read More