(found in the rusted bell of an old trombone)
Remember. You remember?
I used to wear that old flannel shirt, that old grey flannel shirt. I used to always carry around a guitar with me, wherever I went. Wherever I went, I went with that old guitar.
It seems impossible.
There was a tree and we sat in the shade. I’d play the chords, and you’d sing melody. Sometimes, when I wasn’t too distracted by your voice, I’d chime in with the harmony.
They cut that tree down. They cut that tree down yesterday.
Or was it the day before? Or last year?
But I remember. You remember?
I used to have those jeans, the ones that I bought just new from the department store. But you didn’t like the look, and I didn’t like the fit. We bought a belt, big leather-brown belt and then tore holes in the knees.
It seems impossible. Sometimes, at least, it does.
There was a park in the city, and we’d go there to watch the sun fall down from the sky. I’d lie on my back, and you’d rest your head on my chest. Sometimes, when I wasn’t too distracted by your breathing, I’d try to describe the colors.
They filled that park in. All kinds of cement. It’s a police station now.
Or is it an elementary school? Or a hair salon?
What isn’t forgotten?
Well I haven’t forgotten you or those jeans or the old flannel shirt. I haven’t forgotten the guitar and the melody. Sometimes I do forget the harmony. Sometimes I try to sing, but I don’t quite remember the words. Sometimes I don’t quite remember the pitch. But I remember the big, brown belt. I remember your hair and your breathing and the sound of your voice, and when I remember it all, I get so distracted.
And it does seem so impossible.