We sat by the fire, warmed by coals and wine and Irish Cream. A light mist touched our faces, it was not rain. We sang the beginning of many songs but only twice remembered a whole tune through. All the words are in there, we said. Why won’t some come? It’s not so cold out here.
My mother read ‘The Shooting of Dan McGrew‘ by Robert Service; it was her late father’s party piece and he could recite it and so many others from memory and heart and gut. The words would come for him, some people are brilliant that way:
All I could recall was the wee Western Wind. I watched my friend Emily recite a Thomas Hardy poem and wished I was special, and better. I’ll try tomorrow.
Western wind, when will thou blow,
The small rain down can rain?
Christ! If my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again!
The small rain down can rain. The small rain down can rain. The. Small. Rain. Down. Can. Rain. I love this sentence. Knowing this one sentence might make me special enough.