or Surprised by Folk Music and Grief Warm days can feel sad. Sunshine can shit on your soul, birds sing sarcastic.
Familiar romantic problems drove me from my dark room. I ran angry. Under pedals and pollinators. Bright sun bounced off Burrard Inlet as kites were flown by packs of giggles. Spring flirted with t-shirt temperatures, and every house, apartment and condo in Vancouver emptied out into the parks and beaches. The city was a Chialis commercial. And I had the day off, but was spending it with melancholic folk music glaring at happiness.
Grief takes sharp turns,
no sense of propriety.
holds heavy thoughts light.
Runs do their work. By the time my knee started complaining I was wearing a smirk. A toddler perched a-top a dad pointed at crows dropping mussels on the bike path. I stopped for a drink. Listening to folk singers groan farewells to lost loves, I surveyed the glad scene. I remembered taking my dad to see the Kingston Trio, his favorite folk band, by then playing with no original members. Best gift I ever gave him. My smirk turned to full smile. Sometimes I really wish my dad were still alive.