Listening to Josh Ritter's 'Bone of Song' immediately reminds me of 'The Wind' by Cat Stevens. At least the opening guitar part. Then reality crumbles in that way where differences in time start to disappear inside of one another. At first, I am a child again, lying in the backseat at night, my parents' conversation has been zoned out and I am looking up and out the window at the stars' stability while the car zips down the road. A song comes on the radio, maybe 'The Wind,' and it grabs me in the chest and brings me to silent tears (hidden from everyone in the car) for a longing that, as a child, I do not know or understand. But I know that it is out there in the stars and in that guitar.
Later, and almost simultaneously, I think of me in five years. All of this silliness will be long behind me then and I will be doing things I haven't even imagined yet. And when I hear this song at that time, I will be reminded of all the people that owned my heart and made it do tricks through music. Those memories have become less than ghosts; they inspire no fear. Those people have already gone off; they either took parts of me that I've learned to do without or they've been kind enough to return that which was not theirs. But make no mistake, they are gone.
Think of yourself in five years, hearing this song. Will you think of me? Have we spoken? Do you feel me in that guitar opening or maybe in one of the lyrics? What will happen to our hearts, I wonder, when we have moved on to other lives? I imagine they repair themselves and forget. Well, they do remember, but memory is not longing. It isn't even a feeling. These things topple me.
