“Gallery la-la”
no, wait…
“Radio ga-ga”
Ouuuu.. that’s the ticket.
This song was playing softly in the back room while he dusted the records. The bell jingled and a customer entered, the first customer of the day. He was in the back, behind the beaded curtain that dangled down from the door frame.
He put Joni Mitchell’s face down, clean face now, after dusting it, and walked to the front room.
This person had never come to his store before, it was his sister. She was flipping through Neil Young’s early hits and fanning through the miscellaneous acoustic section when she caught his eye.
There was something in the way they looked at each other as if to say – a knowing, a cherished moment or series of moments of memories past.
They had used to connect over ranting about their parents – living through constant fighting, a separation and divorce at the ages of eleven and nine – being neglected and abandoned by a mother who had few to no coping skills – her resentment and abusive behaviour would fill so many of the hours they spent at home.
It was as if to say – through the silence, through the gesture of showing up, an olive branch was growing between them. It had always been there, but the soil was stripped – this moment held everything they needed to nurture themselves – to tend to the soil and earth between them – to grow rich, to curl and reach up towards the sun.
where rivers are born 