Unlike a majority in the universe
I seemed to have missed the news that the Pop Star croaked.
I once was a member of The Karachi Three. A bathroom band which like
The Jackson Five was a family affair. We made one recording. It was a
small battery operated tape recorder. We had little rhythm, modest
tone, and toothbrush on glass was our one instrument. The recording
itself existed until the batteries expired. But for an afternoon,
through take after take, we were brilliant stars in the panoply of hope.
And had the hunt for new batteries not so dominated our planning meetings
we might quickly have accepted that enthusiasm had but a minor role in
becoming a cherished memory.
But life goes on. The cat
maintains his summer routine. I see him sometimes in the
morning. At dusk he likes the back door to be opened for him. He
sits at the step stares wisely into the horizon, where we both know our
rabbit population is unmanageable. Deer are feeding like calves at the
compost pile. The Yellow Chats that nested in the brambles at the far
end of the west field now visit the house. And yesterday we had three
and half inches of rain. Blackberries this year might just be perfect.
So why I wonder do we mourn a past.
And I guess the answer finds a reflection in the future more than it does in
now. Unless of course it is related to some sort of public