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November 22, 2009
Emerge
Milwaukee, December, 1983. I carried her sparrow-light, lifeless body to the car and propped it up in the front seat. Father's feet crunched on the driveway's gravel ahead of me. I thought of him carrying me in from the car, drowsy and happy, after a night at the drive-in, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, when I was as easy to lift as she was now. He used to smell like after-shave and pipe tobacco, I remembered; how comforting that combination of smells had once been, and how intensely I had grown to detest the cloying odor of Borkum Riff, his acrid, shabby suits, cheap shoes. My hands shot out from my position in the back seat to cradle Mother's head when Father throwing the car into reverse caused it to loll crazily to the side.Originally from 'notes' a composer's life by daron hagen, ReBlogged by newmusicrebloggers on Nov 22, 2009 at 05:11 PM