Your Saturday Nooner
By Barry Friedman
"It is so tough--so, so tough--to wrap my head around words. Like dancers who refuse to move, they, filled with letters of all shapes and sizes, sit straight, erect, waiting to be soothed, massaged, satisfied, called to action. Lifeless, they mock me, like so many unrequited loves.
Ahh, happiness, contentment. The GOP had it once, shared it once wth a hurting nation, when a tower of man coddled us all, taking us in his arms and touching the small of our collective back. We sat, many of us, at night, those at the Revolution, around his bed--him in his nightshirt, how good he looked-- when he'd sip warm milk and doze off. Nancy would bring him that milk and cookies, too, and she'd tell us not to talk too loudly or smartly. We'd listen to his stories of America and Akim Tamiroff and of him in this great untamed land, a land he tamed, hearts he touched.
Mine he touched. I still feel it.
When I think of this Clinton, though, her hair disheveled, her politics in discarded emails, I wonder who will sit at her bedside, who will love her manifestations and yarns? What words will be spoken, what words will call, 'Here. I. Am.' Who will be touched by her?
America, as always, needs a bedtime story to wake refreshed. Am I the one to cajole the words to make it so? I am not, though I once was. But not now, not with this woman. I weep. Not for me, but for all of us.
It is so so tough to see the future, remember the past, understand the present. What good are words when my heart yearns for touch?
Love, sweet love, I am here. Remember me.