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“The Picture”
He couldn’t even remember,
The last time,
He had even,
Heard her name.
But he had pulled out a record,
That he hadn’t played,
In years,
And out of the record jacket,
Dropped her picture,
On to the ground.
He felt floored,
He got that feeling,
In his stomach,
A mix between,
Bile and excitement,
An uneasy,
Unsure,
How to react feeling,
As if someone,
Was watching him,
To see his reaction,
When he saw,
Her picture,
Hit the ground.
But it was just him,
Standing in an empty room,
Still holding the record,
Looking down at a,
3x5 picture of her,
That seems larger than life,
With its sudden appearance.
He sat the record,
On the turntable,
Lifted the arm,
Prompting the record,
To begin to turn,
And with a steady hand,
Laid the needle,
At the start of,
That one continuous groove,
That made up side-1,
Of the record.
He stepped over,
Her picture,
Sat down in,
An overstuffed armchair,
Positioned perfectly,
Between two 4-foot tall,
Speakers.
He carefully looked over,
The record album cover,
As the music,
Began to play,
Searching for some clue too,
Why her picture,
Was tucked away,
With that particular record.
He looked over,
At the picture,
Still lying on the floor,
Tilting his head a bit,
To try and make it,
Look more in frame,
To him.
He didn’t know why,
He didn’t just go over,
And pick it up,
But he felt somehow,
That would be admitting,
Something,
Though he wasn’t sure,
What that would be.
He had forgotten,
Just how much,
He liked this record,
Over the years,
He had passed it over,
100’s of times,
When looking for,
Something to play,
Why he pulled it out,
This time,
He didn’t know.
He was just starting,
To fall away,
Into the music,
When the 3rd track started,
3-notes in,
And he was shaking,
This was the song,
This was the song he played that night,
That first night,
That they were together.
He was a wash,
With emotions,
All of them surging,
At once,
Love,
Joy,
Pain,
Sorrow,
His heart tossed about,
On top of an ocean,
Of ever changing waves.
He stands up,
He has to steady himself,
Before he takes a step,
As if the floor itself,
Is caught up in,
The same emotional turbulence,
As his heart.
He walks over,
To the slowly spinning record,
Lifts the needle,
And sets it on,
The last part,
Of the 2nd song,
Turns up the volume,
Steps back over her picture,
And sits down,
Between the same two speakers.
As that song ends,
He leans back,
Closes his eyes,
Fully prepared this time,
For the on slot,
Of feelings,
Coming behind,
Every note.
His fingers,
Start digging into,
The armrest,
As those first few cords,
Bring back so much pain,
He winces,
As if he had,
Just been hit,
But as he listens,
And allows the music,
To soften his heart,
He starts to remember,
The highs,
Levels of love,
He had forgotten,
He had ever reached.
And when the song finished,
He just sat there,
Feeling spent,
And throughout,
The next 2-songs,
He never heard,
A single word or note,
That came through,
Those two 4-foot speakers,
As his mind,
Was still trying to process,
All this newly fed,
Information.
The record ended,
The arm raised,
Swung back to its stand,
And rested.
He continued to sit there,
Eyes closed,
In a now quite room,
All alone,
As old memories,
Thoughts and feelings,
Were momentarily new again,
In both their,
Brightest luster,
And darkest cuts.
After a few more minutes,
He opens his eyes,
Walks over to the record player,
Carefully returns the record,
To its jacket,
He bends down,
Picks up her picture,
And takes a long look,
Before sliding it,
Into the jacket,
With the record,
As he walks over to,
The shelves,
Of records,
And puts it,
In no peculiar place,
Among his 100’s of other records.
He pulls out another record,
Sets it on the turntable,
And as he lays the needle down,
And the music begins to play,
He wonders,
How long will it be,
Before he sees that picture,
Of her face,
Looking up at him,
Once again…
Tom Allen…04-04-2017…
He couldn’t even remember,
The last time,
He had even,
Heard her name.
But he had pulled out a record,
That he hadn’t played,
In years,
And out of the record jacket,
Dropped her picture,
On to the ground.
He felt floored,
He got that feeling,
In his stomach,
A mix between,
Bile and excitement,
An uneasy,
Unsure,
How to react feeling,
As if someone,
Was watching him,
To see his reaction,
When he saw,
Her picture,
Hit the ground.
But it was just him,
Standing in an empty room,
Still holding the record,
Looking down at a,
3x5 picture of her,
That seems larger than life,
With its sudden appearance.
He sat the record,
On the turntable,
Lifted the arm,
Prompting the record,
To begin to turn,
And with a steady hand,
Laid the needle,
At the start of,
That one continuous groove,
That made up side-1,
Of the record.
He stepped over,
Her picture,
Sat down in,
An overstuffed armchair,
Positioned perfectly,
Between two 4-foot tall,
Speakers.
He carefully looked over,
The record album cover,
As the music,
Began to play,
Searching for some clue too,
Why her picture,
Was tucked away,
With that particular record.
He looked over,
At the picture,
Still lying on the floor,
Tilting his head a bit,
To try and make it,
Look more in frame,
To him.
He didn’t know why,
He didn’t just go over,
And pick it up,
But he felt somehow,
That would be admitting,
Something,
Though he wasn’t sure,
What that would be.
He had forgotten,
Just how much,
He liked this record,
Over the years,
He had passed it over,
100’s of times,
When looking for,
Something to play,
Why he pulled it out,
This time,
He didn’t know.
He was just starting,
To fall away,
Into the music,
When the 3rd track started,
3-notes in,
And he was shaking,
This was the song,
This was the song he played that night,
That first night,
That they were together.
He was a wash,
With emotions,
All of them surging,
At once,
Love,
Joy,
Pain,
Sorrow,
His heart tossed about,
On top of an ocean,
Of ever changing waves.
He stands up,
He has to steady himself,
Before he takes a step,
As if the floor itself,
Is caught up in,
The same emotional turbulence,
As his heart.
He walks over,
To the slowly spinning record,
Lifts the needle,
And sets it on,
The last part,
Of the 2nd song,
Turns up the volume,
Steps back over her picture,
And sits down,
Between the same two speakers.
As that song ends,
He leans back,
Closes his eyes,
Fully prepared this time,
For the on slot,
Of feelings,
Coming behind,
Every note.
His fingers,
Start digging into,
The armrest,
As those first few cords,
Bring back so much pain,
He winces,
As if he had,
Just been hit,
But as he listens,
And allows the music,
To soften his heart,
He starts to remember,
The highs,
Levels of love,
He had forgotten,
He had ever reached.
And when the song finished,
He just sat there,
Feeling spent,
And throughout,
The next 2-songs,
He never heard,
A single word or note,
That came through,
Those two 4-foot speakers,
As his mind,
Was still trying to process,
All this newly fed,
Information.
The record ended,
The arm raised,
Swung back to its stand,
And rested.
He continued to sit there,
Eyes closed,
In a now quite room,
All alone,
As old memories,
Thoughts and feelings,
Were momentarily new again,
In both their,
Brightest luster,
And darkest cuts.
After a few more minutes,
He opens his eyes,
Walks over to the record player,
Carefully returns the record,
To its jacket,
He bends down,
Picks up her picture,
And takes a long look,
Before sliding it,
Into the jacket,
With the record,
As he walks over to,
The shelves,
Of records,
And puts it,
In no peculiar place,
Among his 100’s of other records.
He pulls out another record,
Sets it on the turntable,
And as he lays the needle down,
And the music begins to play,
He wonders,
How long will it be,
Before he sees that picture,
Of her face,
Looking up at him,
Once again…
Tom Allen…04-04-2017…