A Ray Charles Night

It’s a Ray Charles night, here in an otherwise quiet cottage on a drowsy lake. A few open windows frame this summer night, the lamps casting shadows over my books, my Sunday Times in a wicker basket by the living room chair. I want to write, to make something tonight with my secular hands, these working woman’s fingers. Earlier I worked my hands through my son’s hair, lathered the shampoo as he laughed, unabashed in his nakedness. I hammer a nail, work a silver screw into a reluctant wall. Move the paint brush over a thirsty trim. Open my laptop and move fingertips over worn and dirty keys…

And Ray Charles sings, I got a woman; and I am alone tonight. My son dreams his blithe dreams from a quiet room a few feet away. I can feel his breath as his chest lifts rhythmically up and down from beneath a dark blue blanket. A different rhythm than Ray’s 4/4 time. Ray who wants to drown in his own tears. But not me tonight; I want to swim, to sing…

Last night, the witching hour beckoned. Me, asleep, belly down, when she called. I woke to the dark night and the sound of nothing beyond the open bedroom windows, to the sound of silence on the lake. The bull frogs disappeared, the cicadas silenced. The witching hour tip toed to my bed, and lifted one quiet finger to my muted shoulder. I had been dreaming, and when I rolled over and saw the shadow from the nightlight down the hall, I whispered, I miss you. And I ached with the missing. Of you. Of me. Of us... I remembered the text, sent last summer, in plain white font against a black screen: “I am so lonely.” And me that hot summer night outdoors at Lincoln Center, seduced by the heat, by the lights, by the sense that I could do this alone. And yet I saved those four simple words. Tucked away between the photos, the drop off/pick up messages. Because I am lonely, too. But I cannot tell you that...

And it’s crying time again…

Ray and Bonnie sing, Do I ever cross your mind? And I wonder the same thing, too. About you. About a long ago dark eyed man. And I wonder tonight, as Ray sings, if I am worth remembering... Me in my less-than, me in my empty hands, my muffled stories. There is a measured man in a country house miles from here who sleeps a fitful sleep, and wonders if I am the one. As the ghosts--once dark-haired, passionate men who make music with their hands—remember the whisper of me, the unsullied me; Van's brown-eyed girl, without the crust of time, without the dirt and grime of living, the dirt and grime of having loved...

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