Paulitical Correctness
01-31-2008, 11:46 PM
Copy/pasted from a musician's blog -
"i received this in the mail today from a friend (Jamie)
it read:
"
here's a story i wrote while listening to your songs.
I remember everything about the day Scotty told us that he was going to war. I remember my mom answering the phone, a smile sliding across her face at the sound of his voice and then quickly disappearing; her face twisting as she began to sob. I remember my dad rushing over to her from the other room, prying the phone from her grip and pulling her shaking body into his. He put his ear to the receiver and I watched as his eyes widened with understanding. He looked down at my mom, now nearly limp in his arms, then back at the phone. And in a near whisper he told his son how proud he was.
I remember being paralyzed in my chair five feet away, my heart in my stomach as I pretended not to know. My dad looked over at me, surprised to see that I was in the room. She's here, he said and he held out the phone for me to take. Your brother, he told me, as if I didn't know.
I remember the goose bumps as I heard his voice, so calm. Hey kid, he said. My voice squeaked as I tried to answer and a sudden rush of terror and tears tore through my body. I kept my sobs silent so that I could hear every word he said. He told me to be strong and not to worry. He told me to take care of mom because we both knew what a mess she could be. He told me to keep doing well in school and to not let boys distract me. And if anyone hurts you, he said, I will fly back over and kick his ass. I smiled, and the moment I did I wanted to cry all over again from missing him. His voice cracked as he asked me to write him and then he hurried off the phone with a quick I love you.
I remember pretending that the war wouldn't change him. My brother was too good for that. He would come back and we would play football and he would give me a hard time about whatever "douche bag" I was dating at the time, threatening to beat him up if he ever hurt me. I kept pretending, even after his letters got darker and told of wanting to "blow the whole damn country up just to get back home." I would pretend that he was joking when he wrote those things. My brother, always kidding around, I would think to myself, half convinced.
And I kept pretending through the letters, through his new foul and derogatory language. I clung to anything I could find, any words of love or hope that would let me keep pretending. But I couldn't pretend anymore when he came home, angry with alcohol and with scars that refused to heal. I couldn't lie anymore after I found his body dangling from our tree in the backyard, a note blowing in the breeze next to him. Please leave me hanging here."
:(
"i received this in the mail today from a friend (Jamie)
it read:
"
here's a story i wrote while listening to your songs.
I remember everything about the day Scotty told us that he was going to war. I remember my mom answering the phone, a smile sliding across her face at the sound of his voice and then quickly disappearing; her face twisting as she began to sob. I remember my dad rushing over to her from the other room, prying the phone from her grip and pulling her shaking body into his. He put his ear to the receiver and I watched as his eyes widened with understanding. He looked down at my mom, now nearly limp in his arms, then back at the phone. And in a near whisper he told his son how proud he was.
I remember being paralyzed in my chair five feet away, my heart in my stomach as I pretended not to know. My dad looked over at me, surprised to see that I was in the room. She's here, he said and he held out the phone for me to take. Your brother, he told me, as if I didn't know.
I remember the goose bumps as I heard his voice, so calm. Hey kid, he said. My voice squeaked as I tried to answer and a sudden rush of terror and tears tore through my body. I kept my sobs silent so that I could hear every word he said. He told me to be strong and not to worry. He told me to take care of mom because we both knew what a mess she could be. He told me to keep doing well in school and to not let boys distract me. And if anyone hurts you, he said, I will fly back over and kick his ass. I smiled, and the moment I did I wanted to cry all over again from missing him. His voice cracked as he asked me to write him and then he hurried off the phone with a quick I love you.
I remember pretending that the war wouldn't change him. My brother was too good for that. He would come back and we would play football and he would give me a hard time about whatever "douche bag" I was dating at the time, threatening to beat him up if he ever hurt me. I kept pretending, even after his letters got darker and told of wanting to "blow the whole damn country up just to get back home." I would pretend that he was joking when he wrote those things. My brother, always kidding around, I would think to myself, half convinced.
And I kept pretending through the letters, through his new foul and derogatory language. I clung to anything I could find, any words of love or hope that would let me keep pretending. But I couldn't pretend anymore when he came home, angry with alcohol and with scars that refused to heal. I couldn't lie anymore after I found his body dangling from our tree in the backyard, a note blowing in the breeze next to him. Please leave me hanging here."
:(