The following was found tucked inside a used paperback picked up for a dime in a vintage shop in Boulder. The image on the postcard had long since faded to nothing, but the following endured in a tiny, precise hand:

Dear Son,

Here is a truth of life.

Pay attention.

A young couple alone at the middle of a dance floor, might as well be two fireflies in a mason jar. Wrapped still in their winter clothes of scarves and long coats, gloves and mufflers they wind into and away from each other, dancing to whatever unholy racket the guy behind the laptop is responsible for.

So while he carpet-bombs hearts, minds and eardrums, taking good taste as a prisoner of war, these two are stepping to the music.

Speaking strictly, they cannot dance. Could not carry time on a stretcher.

But pay attention.

For one moment, stop thinking about stringing up DJ Scratch and Sniff with piano wire and watch. Be quiet, put down your drink.

They move to each other, these two. Not the music. Apes could be the house band, banging sheet steel with sledgehammers and these two would find that same rhythm.

Make sure to pause in your moment to occasionally admire the moment of another, or you will miss truth.

Another’s moment can teach you if you only stop and look and there is grace when disapproval gives way to admiration.

I wish this for you, my son:

That more than once in your life you dance with a women that poorly, if for nothing else than to tell the poor slobs watching a truth.

Pay attention.

Love,
Pops