I'm supposed to write a letter but I don't want to.
I remember when my grandmother called to tell us that my cousin Harley was dead. My mom kept mouthing "Harley" over and over again. Really she was saying it all, she was saying "Harley died," but it was too foreign, too wrong. My 19-year-old cousin couldn't be dead, and I could only hear "Harley." The other half of the sentence didn't, wouldn't compute.
This was the song that my mom kept playing. The song that looped through our house in the days, the months that followed.
Harley would have hated it.
Hokey old country music.
But I hear it and I think of him.
30 Days of Truth