Devonne Brown

In the midnight hour, when no one else is around or listening, the story I tell myself is that I didn’t fall off the turnip train yesterday. That the voice of Linda Ronstadt still rings true in my heart and head. I’m still the woman I was forty years ago even though I have silver hair and bat wings under my arms. 

In the midnight hour when all is still, when no one else is around or listening, though my eyes are fading and my hips are wide, I believe in my power. I listen to Linda sing my songs, her force becomes mine and I ride high on her music.

In the midnight hour when all is still, when no one else is around or listening, I remember the boys I used to love. One or two in particular I still think about, and wonder if they ever think about me. I’m sure they think about me. Linda reminds me that they do through her high notes. 

In the midnight hour when all is still, when no else is around listening, I hear the echoes of my soul crying out in the darkness. Sometimes I go out in the backyard, listening to a different music at night, instead of Linda. Sounds of the forest reverberating in darkness, frightening me to my core over nothing, music I hear in my heart, music in the silence.

In the midnight hour when all is still, when no one else is around listening, I cry tears of loneliness. I break out the wine and drink deeply. The red wine washes away the blues that caught hold of me for a moment before I sleep.

In the midnight hour when all is still, when no one else is around listening, I crank the music loud, louder, loudest. I sing with Linda and I dance. My house. My rules. No permission required.