Songs of me

Music wrings memories from me until there is almost nothing left.

Saturday morning, sitting in my recliner, flipping channels, gray hair floating down in a ray of sunlight that is amazingly unchanged.

The old country tunes come on and my heart aches.  I can barely stand to listen to these songs, these memories of my mother, of times when life was so sweet, so simple, so innocent.  My heart breaks and I move on.

John Denver pops up, a whole new era, college, peace marches, friends leaving on jet planes and coming back empty shells with no words left, the innocence gone, but the grandeur of this world swells in earthy love songs that have never left my heart.

Random artists, random songs, popping up on the radio and television, sneaking in here and there like ghosts in this evening of my life.  No wonder I can only listen to composers like Smetana and The Moldau, like minds, like hearts speaking to where I am now, without incredible pain.

How can the music I love so much make me ache so unbearably?  The sound track of my life touches nerves that words and pictures have forgotten even existed.