Sometimes you say words and they’re better than anything you can say later.  Even if older you come to the full realization of what you said.  Maybe it’s what David realized writing the songs for his third album.  He’d come to the end of something and not his father’s death and not his brother and not even other memories of death and people he would never see again.  People like Johnny Tribout and Schultz in prison.  Even Gerald, the eldest brother, who he had not seen since that summer when he was fifteen and acquired that bullet hole in Jonathon Bonnor’s guitar.  And there were would be more people he would meet to never see again, echoes of Rosie Soledad and Popovitch in that last meeting he had with Maddie the day after Benjy died all of these events having dates like the day David lost hearing in his right ear—April 2nd 1966.  You come back to yourself after these meetings and parting.  You come back to yourself with memories of what you said that now you could say no better and how you make sense of it sense of what happened is how you come back to yourself a corner where you realize you said it and now you can say anything even if it’s nonsense because you know you already said it nobody knowing it but you that you can’t be held to it.  You can’t be held to it because you said it and you know it you know the glaring contradiction and that there will be more there will always be more and what you said then is always the same as what you say now though by all extremes of logic the syllogisms which say all this is that therefore that is also this a mere wordplay of the mind making reasonable comparisons but you at fifteen and then at nineteen and thirty-seven talking to yourself talking to your children at the age when they turn fifteen and then nineteen a hapless and futile repeat of denial and reversion and no sense at all to it to tell someone tell them you already said it and why don’t they remember for they remember other things you said that you don’t remember at all—and what?  What do you hold onto as you come back to yourself when a meeting becomes a parting?  And not just death, but life after love when someone you love takes a contrary road like at a crossroads a deal made but they go one way and you go yours.  And so who are you to them and to you if it be love if it was love which you remember saying a long time ago never plays the victim yet now if you look at it from their perspective what are you to say I’m sorry if this can’t change anything?  David couldn’t change her mind.  Bethany.  For if it is love it can never be was love and so what was it was the question on David’s mind returning home to live with his mother when his father died his brother William because maybe love is like counting and like in some sequence it goes backwards and forwards in the supremacy of numbers and since you don’t know where it begins and where it ends the patterns you make of it are but a temporal anomaly and really what you said can’t be said any better unless you make a joke out of it.  Perhaps this God’s humor on love.  And you why you are where you are now.  So, in 1967, a year after Benjy died and David lost his hearing in his right ear, he returned to the crossroads to say something on his father’s death twelve years before.  The nineteen years since Bethany divorced him.  And what he said he could never say again.  He could but now there were more numbers in the sequence.  So now was time.  Time for a new song.  As always in the count of four.  As always a dance.  And maybe that’s why he went home to live with his mother after his father’s death.  For a time he wanted to escape the count.  Something he would have to face eleven years later in what happened with Maddie after Benjy’s death.  What he would reckon with a year later back at that crossroads in Mississippi.  A woman you have children with…

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