Driving in my beat-up car,
I passed the house we used to own,
We don’t live there anymore.
You live up north now, all alone.
I walk along the many streets we used to walk together.
Now I walk them by myself in cold and stormy weather.
Remember that old gift shop with the angels on display?
When I pass, I still see us inside, and we’re okay.
Driving with my dear old pops,
He likes to point at all the shops,
He tells me what they used to be,
It doesn’t mean a thing to me.
Who cares if that old barber shop was once a hardware store?
Who cares how much a movie cost in nineteen-sixty-four?
Why must we always measure things by what they used to be?
The past is dead and gone, and still, I want you here with me.
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1 comment:
We wear the past like a cloak to protect us from the cold that the present can bring. What would we do if didn't keep our minds preoccupied with what was and what might have been? We might be forced to open our eyes and see what is and how quickly we let the moment run through our fingers.
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