Hi, y'all. Long time, no email. <3
Sending love from my corner of the world to yours. I'm hoping to have more writing to share soon, but for now: here are some small pieces of writing from the last year or two that I'd like to have a home here.
When I was thirteen, my family and I went to see James Taylor at the Warner Theater in DC. I don't know if this is just the way I have chosen to remember it, but in my memory, all four of us shed a tear when he played the first note of the night. You don't always know you are in a moment when it's happening, but I think we all knew. The music of my parents' adolescence was the music of our childhood. The legacy continued, unbroken.
My dad used to play "You Can Close Your Eyes" from the Mudslide Slim CD on my bedroom boombox as a lullaby. In one sense, I grew up quickly, early losses cementing grief into my young brain. In another sense, I grew up slowly, happy to receive goodnight kisses and tucking into bed well into high school.
I needed lullabies and my parents gave me James Taylor. You can close your eyes, they were saying. We will be here in the morning.
Sometimes I lament how much money I’ve spent on therapy. I only really lament this when I think about how we’d like to buy a house one day and we can’t because I’ve gone to therapy— a massive oversimplification. I jokingly said this to Drew a few months ago. He didn't miss a beat when he said, “You have ensured the home of your mind and body is a safe place to live. There is nothing more important than that.”
We lived in East Nashville when we first got married in a delightful duplex with a covered front porch that I will always miss. Another couple lived in the other side of the duplex and we assumed a friendly neighbor relationship. Oops, this mail is yours (them). This is your Amazon package that I accidentally opened before looking at the name (me). Would you like some of the cucumbers our garden is overproducing? (Also me)
The wife of the couple traveled quite a bit for work, so it was mostly her husband we interacted with. He was a session bass player and touring musician with a local artist. Daily, he practiced pleasant bass lines, which sounds like maybe it would be annoying, but it wasn't. He was both very talented and very respectful.
The walls were thin. Once, I was home working and I sang the same song practically all day long. After a few hours, my neighbor started playing the melody of this song on electric guitar. I stared in disbelief at the wall that separated our two homes. And then I blushed. And then I laughed. We never spoke of it.
Another day in November, I was at home again and working, front door open, storm door closed to let the sun in. Out of nowhere, I heard our neighbor crying. It was a deep wail of anguish, a sound I’d not heard before or since.
Again, I stared at the wall. I wasn’t sure my responsibility in this moment. I paced the room and thought about knocking on the front door, but it seemed too intimate a moment to interrupt. I put my hand on the wall between us and waited until he stopped.
Later that day, we found a note in our mailbox from his wife: her husband's father had died unexpectedly. She asked us to pick up their paper for the next few days.
We picked up the paper and left a note with our condolences. They returned home after the funeral and he returned to work, bass lines drifting from their side of the thin walls to ours. We never spoke of it, but I've never forgotten it: the sound of a man's grief, raw and unhidden, breaking the heart of an unknown witness.
Over Thanksgiving last year, I got to snuggle up with my five-year-old niece Alice as we all watched Miracle on 34th Street. There was a lot of pausing the movie to clarify what was happening and who was who and "where did the little girl go?" every time Susan left the screen. Then a moment came about halfway through the movie, when Alice sat up and whisper-shrieked, "Where is the miracle?!?"
A shot to my heart. Baby girl, it sometimes seems there is no other question.
listening:
It was about two months ago that I listened to Women in Music Pt. III by HAIM and it completely rocked my world. I can’t imagine a time when I’ll be sick of this album, even though I have been playing it practically non-stop. It’s somehow both slick and raucous and captures a lot of this late-20s/very-nearly-30 energy I’ve been feeling these days. Oof!
On that note, I’ve not really been able to listen to this song without a weep.
Hoping this transitional season is bringing some welcome newness to your homes and families. It is in mine!
Thank you for being here and please feel free to send me a note if you have any thoughts to share, or just to say howdy. I’ll try to write again soon.
Peace & love,
Kelsey
I adore these writings! Thanks for sharing them ❤️
This is only excellent. Well done sharing!!