In the past, life was not so bad. We get a big-picture view, distant enough from the details as to be able to boil down its meaning to a few crisp phrases; the lining of a good chorus.
Maybe you would call it the hook. That one-of-a-kind, worn-in look, faded at the thighs. Maybe you call it something else.
It’s your denim. Don’t let them near the washer, not for the first six months. We’ll get them broken in with that good glory. Whatever it takes.
Even when the whole church is faking it — preacher, deacon, congregation — we’ll get there. Something is bound to happen. The shaveling takes his ham-fist to the collection plate, drops it, the gold coins falling and bouncing, rolling across your standard red carpet runner. Sunlight at 11 shining through the glass, hitting this one gold coin just right, so that I go white in my right eye and fall to my knees, feeling good glory for the first time that morning. Thank you shaveling. And thank you coin return at the laundromat. Six months was just too soon.
More about: Matt Frank & The Manic Moon
