8 April 2020
The night I find out John Prine has died, I’m three cocktails deep in my apartment in Montana as some April super-moon picks the perfect night to show.
I read it. Text it to friends. Then, as with any loss, I can’t believe it.
There’s no bother trying to collect the colors this western dusk is spending. Not now. Not tonight.
Outside, traffic rumbles by my window. Like any number of John’s best songs, something lingers on.
How he made the pain live beside the laugh. How he could make a smile look like a frown.
How, now, all the mountain snow around me has turned to water, is still swimming in the streets, as this spring season tries to tell me the same thing John said about memories…
They can’t be bought. Can’t be won anywhere for free.
Writing from Here 