By David Crow
Conversations
David Crow
I spend a lot of time on words. I like to chat and write, after all. However, there are some things that are difficult to put into words.
Maybe some things are beyond words. Yes, the quality of a few things lifts them beyond any quantity of words, and maybe that’s for the best. To describe them in words would be to somehow limit and diminish them. And because those things are beyond words, we don’t acknowledge them as frequently as we should. If we’re not careful they get lost in the sea of words.
I direct your attention to cheeseburgers. I can’t describe how wonderful a cheeseburger tastes to me. Even if cheeseburgers aren’t your thing, I’ll bet there is a food that makes you feel warm and full all over. You know what I mean.
Because I’m old I’ve got a favorite chair. I can’t describe how soothing that chair is after a long day. If it’s not a chair I’m certain you have a spot where you leave your troubles and you get your smile back. You know what I mean.
Or maybe it’s bluegrass music. I can’t describe how the riparian flow of a three finger roll floats me back to a place where I smell hay fields and a blonde woman with smiling eyes calls me “Big Neph” and pours me sweet tea. You’ve probably never been there, but I’m sure if you hear the right music you have fond memories too. You know what I mean.
Yet some things are even harder to put into words. The hardest thing to put into words is all of those things rolled into one. It’s as filling as my favorite food, it’s my sanctuary like my favorite chair and the memories of it are honeysuckle sweet. It’s flannel sheets in the winter. It’s when nothing is ever where I left it because it belongs there and not here. It’s white roses on no particular Tuesday. It’s when I forget something on my to-do list. It’s tickles and giggle-snorts by the kitchen sink. It’s a cute little snore just over there when I get up in the morning, the laughter of children during the day and the warm lights of home in the evening.
But mostly, as of Sept. 28, it’s been 23 years of green-eyed smiles that brighten my every day. I know y’all have been there too, so if that ain’t worth a few words now and again just so you and I don’t seem like we take it for granted, I don’t know what is.
You know what I mean.
David Crow is a lawyer who lives in Orange.