In late September I had the privilege of hearing poet Mary Biddinger read her poetry and speak on creativity at Florida SouthWestern College. It was an unforgettable day, one that inspired me and brought me back to some internal creative pieces I've been missing.
When I first considered the prompt for this month, I was going to use Mary's idea of a "beacon"--something that reminds you to be creative. Then I came across the quote prompt, and liked that a lot, so went with that one. I thought at the time I knew what quote I would work with, since I had just read Educated, and there was one in there that caught my imagination.
But that was not to be. Once a week I read a poem from Mary's book of prose poems Partial Genius. When I read one called "Apology Tour" I found this line:
Let's listen to Black Sabbath and inhale the rage of vinyl seats.
Immediately a story formed in my mind. I knew I had the right quote.
Since I like playing with structures, I decided to model the prose narrative much like Mary is doing with her prose poems, which are divided into five sections. To push myself further, I decided there would just be five sentences per section. I enjoyed the challenge of creating more complex lines.
Here it is. Enjoy.
Vinyl
I remember that day just after
graduation 1971 when it was urgent I leave my house, the place with an abusive
brother and disbelieving parents. I called my girlfriends frantically, but not
one was at home to save me. In a desperate move I called you, simply because I
had your number handy. “Be there in five, Kathy,” was all you said when you
heard my plea, and soon you arrived in your Chevy Nova, music blasting. When I
got in the car you didn’t ask what was wrong, why I called or anything else:
you simply said, “Let’s listen to Black Sabbath and inhale the rage of vinyl
car seats,” immediately deflating my inner terror like a balloon.
Those words became a beacon for me
as from that moment on we lived our lives together. High school gave way to the
workforce: kids like us didn’t go to college. When the calendar turned 1980,
the words from that night became part of your marriage proposal, and we wedded
without telling a living soul. It always felt like it was us against the world,
a compact unit, held together by rock and roll record albums, used cars, and
cheap rent. We found it hard to let anyone else in, but eventually our tight
unit would expand.
Then came that cold night in 1982
when our son came too early; we sat in my hospital room, shocked and hollowed
out, wondering if he would survive, terrified he would not. There were no
words. Days later, good news came, and weeks later we brought Tommy home. Climbing
into our 1977 Chevelle, you said those magic words once again, the ones that
always made me feel less afraid, and we carried our baby home on those vinyl
seats, music quietly playing in the background. It would be a long time before
you felt the need to say those words to me again.
The summer of 2006 Tommy brought
Lisa to meet us, the girl he intended to marry, the one I felt was from a
family way too much like my estranged one. My rejection served no purpose
except to motivate them to elope in secret. When we received the news, I stood
in the kitchen and sobbed for that loss, and so many others. You, Eddie,
wrapped your arms around me and suggested we go for a ride. Once in the car,
one decked out in leather seats, you cued “Paranoid,” and I knew that somehow everything
would be okay.
Then the June day just after you
retired, we knew something was wrong. We sat stunned in the doctor’s office,
trying to absorb the news of an inoperable brain tumor. You vowed to fight, and
I vowed to fight with you, no matter what it might take. The sun was setting as
we walked across the clinic parking lot to our car, the lights coming on, a
brilliant yellow moon rising above the trees, when I realized it was exactly 48
years to the day you first came to me. Unlocking the door, I leaned close to
you and whispered, Let’s listen to Black
Sabbath and inhale the rage of vinyl seats.
And
your smile was a
Beacon
in the night
Healing
the terror
I
felt inside.
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