Lament of a Forgotten Sun
I could barely hear the deep grumble of my engine over the radio. It must’ve been four in the morning; who the hell was up at four in the morning. The bursting countryside rolled along in time with the beaten, rusted road in front of me; a gentle fog settled across the yawning fields.
I ran into a long, desolate dirt road; it was like how every good horror movie started out. It led me to the top of a hill, just overlooking the city. I parked beneath a slumping oak and slipped out of the driver’s seat to sit on the hood of my rattling heap. Billie Holiday’s sweet, bleeding voice babbled with the chattering trumpet and hummed right along with the low moan of the saxophone; it was something to savor.
It was the first time I had waited around for the sunrise, for the sake of the sunrise, in longer than I’d like to remember. We tend to forget about it, and all those other little things that make up the day; we’ve become too busy. We’ve become too busy makin’ deals, makin’ money; we’re too busy makin’ up things to squabble over, things that send the warm stench of death right up our porch steps. We’ve become too busy to remember.
As the sun peaked around the corner, I felt like an old woman waking up to her man, opening my eyes just early enough to grab his hand and hold on. I watched the sun creep up the sides of the rousing city; she sure was breathin’, that city of mine. Even at her drowsiest hour, there’s just that tiny rustle, that tiny hint of restlessness; like there’s something that’s started, and you ain’t even gotten there yet.
I guess that some people are up at four in the morning because they are looking for something; they drive and drive, until something else comes up to do. Some are just startin’ another day, and some are just endin’ one. Then there are folks who just need some time; time to rework things, rethink things, replay things, things that they have an awful hard time doin’ any other time of the night. And some souls are just leavin’, ‘cause they can’t seem to find another reason to stay. Then there are those who haven’t the slightest idea.
A flock of birds moved in perfect rhythm to the waver of Holiday’s voice, delicately flitting over the field in front of me, clearing away the fog.
I guess that some people, up at four in the morning, are just lookin’ for the sun to rise. If there was anything to believe in it was this, and all the other little things we’ve let go by, all the little things that make this life worth livin’.
So, we’ll forget all about it, all the time that elapsed between those risin’ suns; we’ll just start from here, it seems like a good place.