That's What Sons Do: Write

Let It Be. Silly Song, Really. You Let It Be, It Returns. There's The Truth. You Let It Be, It Drags You To The Ground. You Let It Be, It Crawls Up Your Walls.

The World Spins. We Stumble On. It Is Enough.

And I Suddenly Think, As I Look Across The Table At Him, That These Are The Days As They Will Be. This Is The Future As We See It. The Swerve And The Static. The Confidence And The Doubt.

The Tunnels Of Our Lives Connect, Coming To Daylight At The Oddest Moments, And Then Plunge Us Into The Dark Again. We Return To The Lives Of Those Who Have Gone Before Us, A Perplexing Möbius Strip Until We Come Home, Eventually, To Ourselves.

It Is Not Fashionable Anymore, I Suppose, To Have A Regard For One's Mother In The Way My Brother And I Had Then, In The Mid-1950s, When The Noise Outside The Window Was Mostly Wind And Sea Chime.