Nobody knew, but you and I,
How the sun flew to the sky.

T'was long ago, but it is clear,
The memory and truth is here.

One fine night, we walked along,
We whistled and we sang our song.

     If I remember right,
     T'was always night,
          Until we finished our tune.

     And we stopped,
     The moonlight hopped,
           It led us to a pond.

     We looked and stared,
     And then it flared,
          The reflection of the moon.

     It was rising near,
     The moonlight's tear,
          'Til we took a hold of the light.

We tossed it up, into the sky,
And through the air, stars did fly.

Each night as the moon grew fuller yet,
More and more stars we did get.

     And finally, on zenith hight,
     I let out a little cry,
          T'was the beauty of a tiger's eye.

The full moon's face reflected down,
And then we heard a golden sound.

Shimmering, shining, the eye drew close,
The moon flew aside as the beauty rose.

Then suddenly, t'was in the air,
The glowing orb of shine so fair.

We stood and looked and then I said,
"What shall we call what burns overhead?"

After sitting still, and as one,
You said this: "We call it our sun."

And to this day, only we know,
How the sun came to shine and glow.

Only we can be right,
For we know how the sun met the night.

Most moments in our lives pass unnoticed, without remark or consciousness.
Then, there are those that mean something, or that we choose to mean something,
   that become a placeholder for our lives, to add meaning, understanding, passage
    a demarcation that bestows significance
My daughter graduated, under rainy skies and cool breezes.
The white tents in the grass flapped empty and lonely like a cancelled wedding
We sat in a loud gymnasium rather than in the grass quad surrounded by trees
I was there with a thousand other proud parents;
I circled her name in the program.  I waited for the moment when it was to be called; being    
   slightly afraid I'd miss it
And I whistled and yelled, but I don't think quite enough.  I didn't seem to mark the moment.
It was a moment, and I knew it, expected it, wanted it to be.
   so badly.  
Bittersweet.  I like that word, it explains life so well.
I like the idea of bittersweet and I wanted to have it envelope me that day.
I tried to hold on to it.   Like a good dream that comes too late in the morning and wont be prolonged quite far enough
I wanted to hold on, to understand what it meant.  I knew it meant so much,
   or, at least, I wanted it too.
I held on to understand what this meant to her.
I held on to remember my own graduation and the dream I then only fainty realized I had just experienced in my four years of college
I held on because I know her next steps take her further away.
I held on to feel what she felt in the mixture of joy, relief, sadness, confusion;
   all that goes with parting from friends who alone know the exerience you shared.
I held on to make sense of my life.  Making sense of moments makes them meaningful.  
I want life to be meaningful
I wish I would have written something that evening.  In the full emotion of the day.
I thought about it.
And now, like that dream, it is fading into morning light.  I can't remember all that was, or seemed to be, profound and important as I watched my daughter those two days.  
I want it to mean something enduring, symbolic and permanent.  
I want my life to be important, to reflect a famous quote from someone, to be in granite.  
Not so everyone will know it mattered, just so that I will.

An exotic orchid, of the mountains, her smile was scented invitation  
a jocular honey bee, elated by  her fragrance, than nectar, he was.
Covered all over with her pollen , he felt fulfilled, an instinct deeply hidden. prompting.
"To me memories are to be perfect" said, the handmaid of whimsy
"But when I am gone" sighed she "None will ever remember me"
he too felt sad, doleful was her mood and the words,
he fell silent , thought for a long moment and replied:
"Let me be candid about this, though to your  fragrance I've given my heart,
unless the offer of honey is implicit, why should I come searching for you?
We both give and take too, that's the prompt of nature true,
we can't help it, that's why we do; more than that all nature decides"
The flower stood mute and wistful, then serenely smiled,
it was time for them to part, the wind whistled its sly message.

You know we flew once?
Standing, watching the seafront
And we lept together
Caught on the wind a feather.

We spread our arms, flapped and whistled,
(I still remember how my neck hair bristled.)

We swooped close to the water to catch the sea spray,
While drenching your yellow matted hay.

And then back up again, into the gale,
To be thrown in whichever direction it did prevail.

The gulls cackled and laughed as we floundered in the air,
The secret to flying is not one they’ll share.

Your acidic eyes told me the secret was a lie,
All the gulls told you was to live and not die.

But when I landed you were no more,
And I was left standing on the shore.

The blue night sang to me
A single note all alone.
It hung in the dense air
Beneath the darkness drone.

The blue night sang to me,
It skipped across the river.
It sang to me a melody,
A chilling ballard sends a spine to shiver.

The blue night sang to me
A song of sombre truth;
An epitaph to day,
Ending innocent youth.

The blue night sang to me
But it said not a word.
It sang of nothing real…
Or nothing that could be heard.

The blue night sang to me
From behind skeletal trees.
It boomed and whistled and cracked at
Branches broken to appease.

The blue night sang to me;
I could not help but hear.
It beat upon its war drum -
Abandon to fear.

The blue night sang to me;
It stared into my eyes.
A one man audience
To hear the beat demise.

The blue night sang to me,
A haunting melody
And forever will it follow
Wherever I may be.

Not ornate just ordinary screen wire but as you passed through it you entered the perfect world
Of the fifties the grocery aisles were short and compact because it was just a neighborhood
Grocery but it had everything you needed bread aisle the aisle with fruit cans vegetables paper
Towels a small shelf for hardware items and in the back the meat and dairy department back
Up to the front of the store behind the counter was the cereal boxes stacked high where the
Grocer had to use the first grabber to easily lift boxes from the top shelf then the bakery goods
In the glass counter under the cash register every doughnut you could ever want and over by
The door a barrel of kites and string on the shelf to fly them this was the provision and under
Writing of the fifties you stood in this insulated haven without regard to time and place the
Great locomotives rambled and roared just down the hill filling some with fear others with
Undying gratitude when they heard that lonesome whistle blow as it approached and receded
The haunting night sounds that best establishes the fifties echo and emotional content the old
Grey grocer created the mood of trust and stability keeping greater truths and dangers at great
Lengths mother and dad’s voices made up more of the vintage life known at that time peace
And restraint held you at the edges of small towns and their boundaries and the family barber
Whistled like Andy on Mayberry and had the same family and social beliefs it further carried you Forth into the sweet life that was the fifties the small hardware stores had that feel of small
Wonder the whole nation to a degree was on display within these walls all items that were small and needed were here in great supply it was cozy it delighted it made a small town larger by its
Connections to the rest of the country and where it fell short JC Penny across the street and
Montgomery Ward down the street made up the difference where they left off Murrays
Jeffrey’s television completed the hook up that great symbol of RCA at Murrays the dog and the
Phonograph and the wonderful team of Jack and his lovely wife made up the team at Jeffrey’s
They were between Woolworths and Ben Franklins dime store and for good measure Pop
Sinnard’s malt shop was next door across the street the Roseland Theater no it’s not the fifties
anymore the movie house is threatened by projectors all going digital the fight is on to save this
one special place where you lined up for Elvis down the block and around the corner Saturday
Matinees nothing better than the Bowery boys with Uncle Lou Sach and Slip rounded off by
Lewis and Martin the rings keep flowing outward if you don’t return in real time you do in mind
and heart from now on and the fifties are the greatest part of that reunion it was rock & roll
cool and so much more as Bob would say thanks for the memories