Why don’t you write a mourning page like this too?—@amyturnsharp “Went to the man, said ‘it’s ok, pay me your money get on your way…’” Why these lyrics are always some outpost of adolescence I can go out through the flaming wildgrass and hide in are why she probably said we should worship every word of song like its own prayer and wow, Pop, you weren’t wrong but I miss you. I love you more now, that you’re gone which is pretty rough tbh but thankfully not sentimental anymore. You always gave it to us straight and I’m the man I am as much as for never wanting to be anything like you as I just am. Those falls, stepping out onto flathead-suburban streets where no one notices the contrast of white on white, that one Christmas, and especially those weekends in Clifton—drinking black coffee, flying into the black sun of my anger and coming of age. Then that one summer when you fell through the rye and life began at zero. Autumn in America. I’m still angry but who cares. See you in the mirror and yes, I am getting paid for this. Your Son, James amyturnsharp.substack.com/p/mama-said