Hero

HERO
The warm crackle of a cassette tape
And I’m home.

I’m home, secure in the sanctuary of sound –
Brassy, bold, erupting forth from that tiny pebble.
Outside.
Smiling to the old folks, the pure breeds from good days,
Who in turn wave with an easy flick of their wrist. Musical.
“That’s Brierley’s kid.”
And though I know I’m not, I revel in that tingling glow that awakens every time I hear the lie.
I want so desperately to be you.
To make you laugh.
Just the simplest glimmer of a smile will do.
Your door. As deep red as that soul of yours.
The must of your home-made library welcomes me.
And there you are.
No longer some relentless power
But some shell, hunched like a bowing willow,
The dry click of your fingers along to some strange tune.
It’ll be anything. Anyone. You always have the time to listen.
We’ll laugh and talk – all trivial, but platinum-precious
And bright as your eyes.
You’re still the man I fell in love with.
Five years old, ’99, the year you saved my life.
A year where you still nibbled at cigarettes.
You see, I can’t tell you.
I bury myself in words and music and the busying myself with nothing,
Knowing all the while I’m just wishing away what little time you have left.

And yet
There’s the warm crackle of that old cassette tape.
Your fire fills the room.
And you’re alive, shining brighter than anyone.
And, God, Mal, you’re flying.