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June 1, 2013

We drove out Damascus Church road, south of town, and hung a left down around Poythress Way. The church was all sunfaded and quiet, sparkling in the afternoon light. We could see the organ through the cracks and smell the must of the years it has sat, untouched in that backroom. There are bluegrass jams here sometimes - someone always knows someone who has the key and the Ramblers come out here to play on special occasions, or when the fancy strikes. 

We went to Crooks for dinner and I felt the amalgamation of years past filtering the air with the thwump of the ceiling fans and the wine-tinged chatter of the coiffed matrons and the easy drawls of the big silver haired men in pink shirts and linen jackets, sipping bourbon and laughing. 

I can smell her hair and hear my mother's laugh, her indecision at the menu, her pursed lips and the movement of the air around her hands as she rustles through her purse and places her napkin in her lap.