What can YOU say in six sentences?
Only a brown-eyed woman from a dusty, flat place could keep a promise like she made him.
She had small hands, and as she sang they’d waved in the air like drunken waifs, gently restless, and her voice over that plain and the river behind and the people on their blankets in the grass and the night coming patiently over it all, warmly, the way a father might creep into the room of a sleeping child. Baseball would carry him away from that little fair and that honest Kansas town, as it carried him away from every other thing, but only after she’d put his heart in a cup and placed it above the cabinets, out of the reach of time and other hands.
“Walk into any bar where you hear a girl singing and one day the girl will be me,” and she didn’t say it with a breathless, romance novel hope, but with that heartland certitude, words plain and sturdy as the barn her granddaddy built.
There are stars that can only be seen from the Carolina shore, and they watched as the voice, yellow and weightless as any wispy thing floating in a June sunset, pulled him along the sullen boards of the pier toward the open bar. As he neared he saw small hands slow dancing with the ocean breeze, heard the sincere strumming of a lone acoustic guitar, and smelled wheat and serendipity blowing in from a couple thousand miles west.