Saturday, December 27, 2008

MUSIC

She turned her cream colored Dodge down her north Dallas
suburban street right into a wall of music. Not odd, considering
32 kids lived in this neighborhood block.

Five houses down on the left she pulls into the only red brick
home with a circle drive in the front, the music so loud now even
the voices of her own thoughts beaten silent.

All doors and windows of the surrounding homes were closed to
keep the simmering Texas sun out and the air conditioning in.
But she had convinced herself it was to repeal the assault.

Entering the front door the music grew inconceivably louder.
Not the sound of Bread or Kiss or Boston or the Stones. A rhythmic
marching beat. Cosack-like. Germans, Russians, and the US military
marching. An entire orchestra sending troops to war.

And the marching. Pounding of boots, not on gravel but linoleum.
Now hardwood, now across entryway tiles her father's stern, energized
steps . Left, right, left.

A can of Pearl beer in his left hand, a lit cigarette in his right. Marching.
Marching. Her escape down the hallway coincides with the arrival of
his military might.

"Hi Dad," Over-powering and without as much as a glance or a nod, nay
without acknowledgment of any kind, this army of one stomps past
muttering orders to his troops, not understandable but spoken in that
"I'm talking to myself don't interrupt" ind of way while simultaneously
flattening his daughter against the hall wall in his wake.

He proceeds to the end of the hallway and with a drag from his cigarette
and a gulp of his Pearl beer, he reverses direction though not labeled
retreat in his mind.

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