| I heard the old man’s voice break
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| Stutter once then stop it
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| I heard a sentence started confidently
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| Halted by the sudden absence of a word
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| Stumbled and he sputtered trying to find it back
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| Something once so simple, gone now
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| When he finally gave up, told me:
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| «Aw, it’s like hell getting old»
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| When you came into the store
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| Did you know you’d show me your scars?
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| I had a heavy heart, he carried a door
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| Its shattered pane all wrapped in plastic
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| And he asked if I could fix it
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| Come by a little later, help him put it back on hinges
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| «See, I’m far too old to lift it, and it’s not for my house
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| It’s my son’s»
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| When you opened up the door
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| What is it you thought you’d find?
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| (Nobody flinch)
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| Later I came by and backed into the driveway
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| Got out to find him waiting there
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| To lead me through the side yard to
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| Back behind the house where the doorframe stood empty
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| And helped me keep it steady while I hammered all the pins in
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| Then, later on the porch we somehow got to talking
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| He told me of the house and how his son is schizophrenic
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| So they purchased it for him
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| The medication working and they figured
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| It would help him fit in — help him lead a normal life
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| But the pills made him sleep too much
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| And he couldn’t keep a job as a result
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| So, one day, he just gave up on taking them
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| And that day she had called you
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| He’d locked her outside of the house
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| How quickly did you get there?
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| And what were you thinking while walking up?
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| What fears flashed in front of you, taunted you
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| Walking to unlock the door?
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| I remember it, Ed, that story you told me
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| Came back clear tonight, here while writing
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| And you should know the feeling never left me
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| The weight of my heart, when you showed me the scars on your arms
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| When I looked in your eyes and I heard what you said
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| How you probably would’ve died were it not
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| For to care for your daughter and wife
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| How he drove in the knife, still your son
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| How you seemed to look through me to some old projector screen
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| Playing back the scene as you described it on a movie reel
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| As real as the minute when it happened
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| That memory moving behind me
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| That moment that changed you for good
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| And he drove to the house and pulled into the driveway
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| Got out to find his wife waiting, frantic
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| She’d come by to check, found that pillbox was empty
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| Went out to the pharmacy to fill up his prescription
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| And came back to a locked door and could not get back in She’d knocked and
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| she’d knocked but he wasn’t responding
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| You put the key into the lock and turned it
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| Felt the bolt slide away, slowly open
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| Went into the hall, his son held a knife
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| Standing off in the shadows, lunged forward and tackled him
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| Stabbing him over and over and breaking that window
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| He fled up the staircase
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| The ambulance came, stitched and filled him with blood
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| While the cops took his son with his wires so tangled
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| His father was a stranger
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| And I sit in my apartment
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| I’m getting no answers
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| I’m finding no peace, no release from the anger
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| I leave it at arms length
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| I’m keeping my distance from hotels and Jesus and blood on the carpet
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| I’m stomaching nothing
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| I’m reaching for no one
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| I’m leaving this city and I’m headed out to nowhere
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| I carry your image
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| Your grandfather’s coffin
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| And Ed, if you hear me, I think of you often
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| That’s all I can offer
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| That’s all that I know how to give |