Parallel Lines

 The old grocery was out of a work of Norman Rockwell for me. The peddlers waved their wares in the face of my mother, who was commissioned to command a household. That was the choice she had, no matter which door she chose. That was just fine by her. Rubber mat with pressure plates under it, opened the doors in a very analog, cog and wheel world. 

Bulbs hung everywhere, like in the City of Ember. Little fires in glass all over, providing dim, yellowed light and slow-motion flash when they alternated. We did just fine in this teletype world, where thousands of dies were shuffled daily to tell another story to hundreds, if not thousands, of people eagerly awaiting the information. Always trusting, never doubting, the source that would leave them with blackened fingertips. They never minded. That sheet would then go onto warm a home, become a sculpture when coupled with paste, a hat, a sign, a barrier, or perhaps even gift wrap. It was all good, my friend.

If there was a lever before us, you can bet there was a cable attached to it. Transistors were new, and we were still turning on radios and televisions, then waiting for them to warm up before they actually came on. It was good for us. It allowed us to pace our lives. We did not need everything right now. The few things we had in life we really appreciated, and it made it seem like I had more than I do now.

Among all of the machinery, something happened, and the world produced musical genius all at once. Those who had the privilege of living then could never explain it to those who came later. Ironic, since all who came after owed those giants everything for what they themselves had.

Even the protegy can't explain it. They try, but they paddle the boat hard, lost in the nebulous anxiety upon which we now exist. I am so sorry that this is all that is left for you. If I could give you a taste of my memories, I would. I would like to take a day to go back every now and then. 

The way the world was, I see it too clearly. It can be good or bad. But it is, and there is nothing I can do about that. I walk on a parallel line to the one I can still see. I am happy and sad. I miss those whose reflections I see on the other side. I heard them talking because I have kept their words in my heart. I am okay with that. If anything, I really want more. 

Then I learn that the old store is where something terrible happened to my mother. The cables were sometimes connected to actuators, resulting in spankings for ambitious children who were left in the car while the parent went into the store. Life was not so simple, and things were always hard. Where there was trouble, it was hidden, sometimes for a lifetime. 

Yesterday, today, and tomorrow will mean something different for each one of us. What's the frequency, what's the time, and what is the cost? All of it is relative. Therein lies even more parallel lines. The same thing happened to you and to me, and yet it impacted us differently.

You just have to let it go.