Home An answering machine is a time traveler. Memories walk in and sit and wait, but do not change when I returned home to see the blinking red light and pressed play. A machine can hold tragedy within without molesting the details or emotion or tiny pauses she took while trying to explain why she was in the hospital and not at home. The world cannot repeat itself, but I can repeat it mentally, like the machine can repeat, like she repeatedly slashed at her wrists. She had to have thought about the action again and again before doing it.
Music skips out of the speakers with the piano leading the way down the path.
A wind blows, energizing it. Excitement fills the air as the brass and the saxes kick in, Screaming and blaring joyful sounds. Revitalized, running down the path, This playful style continues With the big, loud brasses and the super-cool saxes setting the tone. And slows down, Almost to a halt along the endless trail. The tenor sax strays from the pack, Running freely through the field, Jumping, dancing in the spring air.