Mystery Train

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I am taking a breather.

A moment to sit in bed with John Paul (that would be my bear- a gift from my 23rd birthday that I won't get rid of).



I flip through an Elvis Presley song book that has been tucked away in a forgotten drawer, in a forgotten closet for a forgotten amount of time.  There is a forgotten CD inside that almost-forgotten book. 

It was my dads. 

I smiled as I happened upon it, intermixed with more stacks of papers begging to be shredded in my continual, albeit slow, movement to get rid of things in this house. 

And in this very polished and clean home I sit as I take a moment to go through this songbook where papers with my dad's handwriting lie in the pages he had last left them. 

He was last reading music from Mystery Train- the Elvis Presley version. 


His beautiful, cursive handwritten lyrics and notes and empty photocopies of blank sheet music rest inside these bound pages. I forgot how beautiful my dad's handwriting was.  My handwriting used to be beautiful, too (Before texting and typing became my go-to survival skill).

I am taking a breather. 






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