If someone thinks that love and peace is a cliche that must have been left behind in the Sixties, that’s his problem. Love and peace are eternal ~ John Lennon
The morning sun was shaking loose and sprinkling its rind across a Thursday morning that had come much too soon. Our three days had behaved like mercury- with a fiery abandon whose rambunctious particles cleaved the hours into minutes and the days into memory. Q scavenged the fridge for anything that could be used before we left town. Our ‘moving day breakfast’, much like our conversation, was abundant and tasty. We chowed down whilst jamming to music whose province had become more expansive on this particular morning. For every musical spill out of the sixties, there was another song that spelled a different time and place. We traded favorite songs as we dined, eager to fire up the flat screen on the wall as if it were a mystical pelt that spoke of our histories in four minute verses.
Going up the country had proven to be a magical ride, for more reasons than that farm in Bethel, New York had wrought. Our Woodstock experience turned a couple of blog neighbors into the very best of friends. We’d shared so much of the everything that had brought us to this place, and then we kept right on going; prevailing on the mood of a place that never grew up.
The ride into town after breakfast was filled with stories out of other times and places, and reflections on the times and places we had shared over the course of three days. Like a favorite song that you don’t want to end, we played our steps on a loop and got high on the payback. We had pushed our way into that line of five hundred thousand strong . . . intent on making it two more crazy kids whose moonshine didn’t need a bottle and whose music didn’t act its age.
And maybe this place hadn’t been our first choice. All we knew is that it spoke to us in a language borne of stardust driven six strings and restless voices that once raged inside the deepest reaches of the night. The echoes reminded us that the things we lose in a fire will become the things we carry with us. It’s up to us to shine a light on them, wherever we may go.
Time may thieve the days, but the light . . that’s ours to keep.