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JASON HOWARD ince February, three friends of mine have been diagnosed with cancer. STheir stories are all too familiar. A few odd pains—nothing too severe— an eventual doctor’s visit, followed by a couple more, and finally, a diagnosis that seemingly came from out of the blue. They are all in their sixties. Far too young. 5 One occupied a large space in the landscape of my childhood. He bought me my first guitar, gave me my first beer, taught me about country music—about Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, George Jones, and Tammy Wynette. One time he was listening to Patsy sing “Faded Love,” and he pulled me over to the stereo. “Listen to this, Jason,” he said. “Listen to the breath she takes before she goes for that last note.” He pointed at the speakers, and indeed there it was, Patsy’s vulnerability on full display for the close listener, a moment of beauty that he had not missed. In thinking of him over the past couple of months, I keep remembering a song he used to sing about someone being kept up at night by a memory that refuses to be silenced. It’s a sentiment that I believe many of
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Nov 15, 2015
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