January 13th, 1955—It’s not what I remember.  You would think it’s what bothers me, but that’s not it.  I remember fine.  What I want to remember and I remember I love him because I wanted to.  For the good times.  That part of the heart the seat of the emotions closed somehow to a memory and I look at him differently now.  I look at myself differently.  And if I still have a soul to lose I know because I feel myself losing it.  The control I have in his presence.  How I see the before and after while he feels.  This our inherent cause to subservience which any woman teases about…  No it’s not what I remember.  It’s what I forget that he makes me remember.  The mirror of his time.  There were a number of days we were together, and I can’t keep counting.  Do I remember them all?  The selective is a seat at all tables.  The truth what sets us all free.  Because you never really make a mistake.  Despite consensus and time.  The comedy happens for a reason.  Your laugh the smell of fear.

And maybe the heart has no closures.  It only beats.  Our children are still not accountable, and I wish not to confuse them.  I don’t know if I should ever mention his music.  They have it.  In his times with them.  I see other men with the same hopes the same fears what comes out in their loneliness.  And maybe one can make me a servant to the love I know I have to give what I gave him once but somehow time rejected it into another story some other ending I can’t say I haven’t read…  And where does it come from?  The trust?  From me or him?  All I know in the reasons I feel is that something must be right must get right for me to remember any day and remember it with a peace and a smile I don’t manufacture for someone else… It’s near the time when our boy will be seven—Benjy will be seven, and Dulcinea to follow and most of the time when I think upon them I think upon him in a rather misdirected way as in a face a smile and what I’m sorry about is I can’t trade places with him.  In what fell apart.  I know his place but I don’t know his time and this how I know the poor have but vices they can afford for their time and money and if given the chance how would they spend their time and money and is this so much better than the tenements in which they live with the liquor store nearby and the ground for cigarettes and closed doors the blinds down for other private adventures in which to drag this our holy spirit the only temple into such places, and I trying to judge that time in a place I wish not to take myself.  How my god is in you and my god is in me and how it all must be well in love even in places where love is not there because by not being there it is somewhere ready to refurbish the memory and forgive you—make you ready to forgive me…  Yes I do remember.  For the good times.  David is a man I love because I wanted to.  This my own free will what he has what we all have when we try to remember a day another remembers and our place the same in it.  And it doesn’t matter if it’s cold.  If it’s broken.  It is praise just the same.  And that (I have found) is everyone’s church.  And so I go to church now.  I take our children to church.  Because someone has to teach them the word of Jesus and not what’s just found in his music.  Because they’re not old enough yet.  They’re not old enough to learn anything beyond the roles they play in that tree house.  Here in our home in Texas.  And David isn’t always in Texas though his music finds itself here.  Maybe it will linger in the tree house where our children now play and what will happen… His father just died.  His brother.  And he says he’s going back to New Orleans.  That’s what he says, but I don’t know what he’ll do.  All I know is what I remember and I remember New Orleans.  God knows what he’ll do there again…

But that isn’t what he did.  David didn’t go to New Orleans.  He stayed in East St. Louis with his mother.  He stayed ten months.  Most of the year 1955.  He didn’t write those songs we remember from his third album in New Orleans.  He just recorded them there.  After… after what Bethany said about him what he didn’t know she was or was not saying for this is what makes our place different, but not our time…

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