For a Poetry Writing assignment in Fall 2015. You know, sometimes you feel a lot of nostalgia about something and then you revisit it and find it to not be nearly as good as you remembered. Then sometimes you hardly give something a second thought as the years go back, but then you revisit it and are stunned at how great it is. This CD was one of those latter times. Let me tell you, seeing this beloved woman from my childhood in her current mental and physical state just splits my heart in two.
Sweet Dreams
By C. Randall Nicholson
"Hello. I'm Shelley Duvall. I'd like to sing a little lullaby or two for you."
Thus speaks my second mother, almost as beloved as the first. Thus begins a half hour of pure bliss. All is right with the world when she sings to me, and there is nothing but me and her voice.
My parents tell me not to open the CD changer, but I do anyway. They should never know, except that the next time she sings, she's picked up a severe stutter. How? I only opened and closed it. But they fix her, and again all is right with the world.
Sometimes I put a face to the voice by gazing at the oversized CD case. Looking shy, even surprised, she lies in bed, surrounded by white stuffed animals and painted birds. They float in a world of clouds and stars. She's a veritable angel.
Only one thing is missing from this scene - the object of her affections, the young boy whom all her songs are about. Because that boy is here. That boy is me.
***
She falls out of my life as it becomes more complicated and more painful. There's no room for her in a world of academic responsibilities and social ineptitude. I leave home to become a man but instead return a broken shell. There, stinging from the latest in a series of encounters with less compassionate women, my thoughts return to a simpler time and all that came with it.
The old CD changer has long since broken, but the little portable one mostly works, notwithstanding an occasional skip. In the guest bedroom late at night, I lie back, close my eyes, and push "Play".
"Hello. I'm Shelley Duvall..."
I'd forgotten how good these songs are. But now, for a half hour, I can pretend that once again all is right with the world.
Thus speaks my second mother, almost as beloved as the first. Thus begins a half hour of pure bliss. All is right with the world when she sings to me, and there is nothing but me and her voice.
My parents tell me not to open the CD changer, but I do anyway. They should never know, except that the next time she sings, she's picked up a severe stutter. How? I only opened and closed it. But they fix her, and again all is right with the world.
Sometimes I put a face to the voice by gazing at the oversized CD case. Looking shy, even surprised, she lies in bed, surrounded by white stuffed animals and painted birds. They float in a world of clouds and stars. She's a veritable angel.
Only one thing is missing from this scene - the object of her affections, the young boy whom all her songs are about. Because that boy is here. That boy is me.
***
She falls out of my life as it becomes more complicated and more painful. There's no room for her in a world of academic responsibilities and social ineptitude. I leave home to become a man but instead return a broken shell. There, stinging from the latest in a series of encounters with less compassionate women, my thoughts return to a simpler time and all that came with it.
The old CD changer has long since broken, but the little portable one mostly works, notwithstanding an occasional skip. In the guest bedroom late at night, I lie back, close my eyes, and push "Play".
"Hello. I'm Shelley Duvall..."
I'd forgotten how good these songs are. But now, for a half hour, I can pretend that once again all is right with the world.
Main Page: Poems and Songs by C. Randall Nicholson