He’s playing her song again.
The one he plays in the wee hours of the morning after I go to bed and he’s left alone with his thoughts. The one he plays when it rains….when he misses her.

Smokey vocals skip softly up the stairs; each scratch on her old record seasoning the haunting notes.
Always this song. My only memory of her.

We never talk about it, Dad and I. Though he never tries to hide it.
This is how we remember, how he tells her story…their story…my story. Always through music.
Notes floating on the night, when the world outside is silent and sleeping and the music has the freedom to mourn and reminisce.

I lie awake and listen. All my life, to my father’s midnight rain reverie.

Tonight is different. Tonight there is another “her” haunting the edges of these familiar notes; the smell of her apple shampoo still lingering.

Red. Another motherless child.

Chelsey Whitlow


2 thoughts on “Merrick

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