Erin Fitzgerald

Erin Fitzgerald is a community arts enthusiast, who primarily writes songs and short fiction.  She plays in numerous music groups as well as solo, in styles ranging from traditional to punk.  She lives in Louisville, KY with her brilliant children, who inspire her every day.

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First Step

Gladys sat in the wicker chair by the basement steps and examined the jar.  It felt cool on her palms as she shuffled its contents.  She reached in, pulled out a gold one, and pressed it into her hand.  A fine piece, indeed.  From the dress coat of a small child, she decided.

Gladys scooped out some more buttons, then set the jar on the bottom step.  Fingertips sorted through the pile, allocating a history to each one.  The green and white one had surely come from overalls; the matching pearl ones, from the sleeve of a fancy blouse; the polka-dotted one, from a favorite housedress.

Just a bunch of junk, her daughter would say. Gladys cringed at the thought of those words.

Rosemary meant well, but was from a different generation. Mementos, now, were seen as nothing but clutter.

A vibration in her bra shook the woman from her thoughts.  She pulled out her phone and glanced at the number.  Speak of the devil.

“Hello, dear.”  She listened.  “No, thanks, I don’t need any help.”  She did not want her daughter in there.  She would only make things worse.

“Well, I have until the 30th.” She rolled her eyes  as the question came about progress in the living room.  “No, but I am working on the basement. I’ll let you know if I need anything, hear?”  She ended the call, then adjusted two index cards on the second step, one marked “keep” and the other marked
“donate.”

Gladys picked up the jar, placed it gently in the “keep” pile, then turned to face the dozens of stacks of boxes that filled her basement, leaving barely enough space to walk through. She leaned down, grabbed a shoebox of old letters, and settled back in the wicker to read.

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                           Hazel Green

 
Well ain’t you a sight, how the shadows frame your face
in your autumn housecoat, not a hairpin out of place
Your song is weeping -but your voice, it swells with pride
as ornamental fingers remind me where you hide.
 
Sing low, sweet Hazel, sing
Sing to my soul, let it roll and let it ring.
You’re so gone and gorgeous – like nothing ever seen
Sing me through that old Red River, won’t you please, Miss Hazel Green.
 
I turn down the radio, listen for a sign
somewhere between the Bridge and the Wolfe County line
right in that spot where cold, hard truth meets far-off dreams
right there where the whole, wide world is busting at the seams.
 
Sing low, sweet Hazel, sing
Sing to my soul, let it roll and let it ring.
You’re so gone and gorgeous – like nothing ever seen
Sing me through that old Red River, won’t you please, Miss Hazel Green.

Sing me through that old Red River, won’t you please, Miss Hazel Green.

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