Went to hear live music last night. Met a new friend. Sat with old friends. Got a hug from a pretty girl. Drank a beer, or two. The doors of perception cracked open. The music played. It poured right into my receptive brain, as it is want to do, and made itself to home. At the end, I said a few goodbyes and drove off into a stout rain, thankful for a good car, good friends, and a nice home to lay my head.

This morning the weather is cool and cloudy. I’ll probably work in the yard. It’s what I did yesterday and will do again tomorrow. I like working in the yard. It’s a big dirty canvas upon which I can throw some flowers and trees and make a picture just for me. Of course, I like sharing it and friends are always welcome to stop by. Lot’s do, too. We admire the flowers, if they’re blooming, and sit on the porch and talk, and listen to music, if everyone so desires.

Speaking of music, I’ve always wanted to write words that made me feel like songs make me feel. But as hard as I try, it’s only words on paper. And it’s just me. I like harmony, and multiple instruments, and the interplay of all those sounds ricocheting around in my brain. Hard to imagine, however, if there were three other guys writing along with me, how that would read. Maybe this is just meant to be a whisper in the ear from me to you, sent with affection, and received however you’re inclined.

John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale