Writing Boots

On communication, professional and otherwise.

Even in our sleep, love which cannot forget

05.16.2016 by David Murray // Leave a Comment

The other night, my younger sister Piper and I were adults, but we were emptying the dishwasher in a strange kitchen. We broke into song, singing this arguably smarmy number, only it didn’t seem smarmy at the time, it seemed profound.

Only more so, when our mother joined in. Our mother, who has been dead since Thanksgiving night, 1990.

The three of us, who never sang together as adults—well, we sounded great.

When I realized it, I got a lump in my singing throat.

And I woke up with tears streaming out of my face, and needed a few minutes to pull myself together before I could go back to sleep.

Well, as I said, the three of us sounded great, and I've been singing the arguably smarmy song ever since.

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