"I am done, with broken hopes and vessels, shattered bones and sleeping missiles. Falling down the stairs, and pretending not to care."
A line from Mat Carmichale’s awesome song, “Sleeping Missiles”.
That song brings me back to a time that on occasion is good to think of, in its dream of what life could be and was when I was so young. An old sunlight pouring in through the windows of my high school, illuminating the floating dust…
It seems an old and odd memory now, but I remember coffee at two am made with almond milk in the island kitchen of someone I haven’t heard from in years, and seeing movies with my first honest-to-God friends in that place. Afterward we made the late night rush in your minivan down Woods Hole road to catch the last ferry. I can remember you taking notes during movies in a tiny notebook on a rainy afternoon in spring.
Back then Falmouth still remained an unexplored ancient city, of winding streets and shopfronts; high school was just beginning in earnest. Life begetting songs on uncut guitar strings in the shadow of the window seats by the lockers. I watched that dust fall on the well-loved and worn wooden construction, listening to the air drive the ever-present sound of the windmill. I felt the sun beat down with ever strengthening warmth, signaling the approach of summer once more. Nothing, it seemed to my young mind then, could have happened any other way. Now, it seems, I couldn’t have wished for anything better.