Dont Have a Husband, Don't Play the Trombone. These People.

im listening to -Christmas card from a hooker in Minneapolis- One of my favorite songs in the world, by one of my favorite artists in the world, editing pictures for flyers for our upcoming shows for Egress' new release.
 A wave of sentiment and nostalgia washes over me like the bar sweat from a friday night in a dull town.

I am looking at these photos,....... who are these people I spend all of this time with? How have I gotten here? Sometimes I feel like I have really just fallen deep into a can of PBR and haven't come out of the other side of the rabbit hole yet.
Where are the people that were once so familiar?  and who are these people that are now by my side, while feet are on the dash board, with scenery and stories passing by and we are honking hello to a new state.

These people who pack whiskey in brown bags, avocados that need to ripen into their lunch box, who wear couches as pants or hang bottles in the windows of Clarence. 

These people who miss New Orleans the same way I do, not because of the city that it is,.............
                                                                     but because the people it makes us by being there. 

The people who are just equally terrified of tumbling off of Route 1 into the pacific. 

The people who I yell at and I am sure want to yell back at me. 
Who harmonize, sometimes don't prioritize but meet me at the border anyway.

If we are defined by the experiences that make us, then perhaps we are all just booze soaked, memory stricken, fragile sons of daughters and fatherless daughters, singing O-bla-Di.

One of my favorite memories was playing on a street corner in New Orleans, there was an SUV driven by a woman with her 2 daughters in the back, The city streets were packed and they kept circling around looking for parking. Big eyes peering from the back seat. Upon their 3rd time around the block, the back window rolled down a little more and what appeared was a tiny hand offering me a flower, I ran to the corner and accepted her gift. A flower for our songs.

I misplaced that flower since then, Like i have misplaced many friends, some easier to let go then others, But i think of that flower often, and the expressions on my peoples face, and should I misplace any of them like Ive misplaced others, Ill store them in my shell along side that flower and that New Orleans day.