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Mary Chapin Carpenter sings the words, half a beat behind me as I
write them. And somehow sings ahead of me, too, which makes no kind of sense, just
It’s a good song - catchy and soulful at once.
I’m pretty sure we have a hit on our hands, not that Mary’s ever
needed any help from me. She seems to know what she’s doing, so I
usually just say no when she asks if I’ll write music with her,* because really, who has that kind of time?
And then, I hear whispering. Insistent, plaintive whispering.
by Jennifer Harvey
As hard times go, this current economic downturn isn’t my first rodeo.
When I single girl living on my own, there was a time when I had to
decide between buying cat food or taking my clothes to the laundromat
(the cat won, of course, and some careful hand-washing got me
through to my next paycheck). Other times, I couldn’t pay my rent on
time, and there was even a night or two spent reading by candlelight
because the power was turned off.
I sit in my office,
at the east-facing window, tweezers in one hand and a mirror in the
other. The perfect light for some overdue eyebrow maintenance. Bright,
Forgiving, it isn’t. (And talk about hairs apparent.)
After a few busy and painful moments, I finish. And then.
As I lean back from the mirror, I see what I missed with just an
eyebrow at a time filling the mirror. The face reflected back at me
looks tired and pale and…well, not young. (Don’t make me say it.)
I hear the words rise easy and worn to my lips. Be careful.
My boy climbs the sloped trunk of the tree in front of our house. A
monkey, a scout, Tarzan. My girl follows, more timid, a stuffed unicorn