Piano keys remind me of rain falling. They are the sound of a million tiny dancers on the glass of my heart.
The sun is setting over Virginia Park making silhouettes of the old brick flats and cookie cut CDC homes that look less uniform in line with their aging grand counterparts. Monday is blooming to a close and Detroit loves itself tonight.
Her fickle heart put away for one night for who could refuse to express the softest emotions under the royalty of gold and sapphire and the first glint of Fall.
The only day of the week people won’t rush home and out of the city after work.
The Lions play tonight, opening what is believed by some to be the last hopeful season since 1957.
The Boys of Summer slug out a cool one against the Royals after some tough losses of their own in a series against Giants.
No one seems to care, really. These are merely excuses for men, some often stunted into stoicism by the arduousness of life, to show emotion. Tonight they are allowed to love and laugh and cry. Tonight a man can pick up his son and stare him in his eyes and love him. Love the way his locks are growing in just like his. Love the way he tries to use a stick as a back scratcher. Even love the way he recognizes his own smile when he calls the boy over to help scratch that spot that’s always just out of reach.
Tonight men are allowed things so simple because they know the work they do well but not the work it takes to grow your heart.
And it is night like these that make loyal life time fans of small boys who hold these quiet simplicities in their chest and save up the strength bequeathed to them, until some day they repeat these moments with their sons. Only then will they realize what the tear in their father’s eye meant so many years ago.