Come Together

One of my favorite singers, Ruthie Foster, is going to be in my town later this summer. I was just taking a trip down memory lane listening to her on You Tube while I checked my email this morning. I realized that there is no better way for us to come together than by listening to this fabulous duet. Rock out, people.

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “come together” or on some topic suggested by the video.


Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

2 thoughts on “Come Together”

  1. “A witness?” I asked her, grabbing a tissue from the little box on her desk.
    “Yes,” she replied gently, “It is simply a matter of course. It can be a friend, family member, anyone who has known you and him throughout the marriage and the break-up. They just state that, Yes, you were married, and yes, you are now split.”
    Good lord, I wanted out of this marriage. Or rather the decrepit and crumbling tomb that was left of it. I had no regrets, but this necessary bit of the legal process was news to me, and cracked through my ribs like a crossbow bolt.
    I’d come to the morning consultation cheery, confident, and prepared. It had been years, and yet neither one of us had budged to get things straightened out legally, officially, and finally. Every other bit of the process seemed clinical, but this bringing in a friend to sit with me and sign her name on a dotted line, testifying that: Yes, She Swears, I Failed At Marriage…bust me open.
    It was shame. We asked all those nice people so many years ago, to come bear witness to us saying forever, and to leave some cash or a toaster on their way out. Hey! There’d be cake!
    Now all it took was one good friend to come in some other day with me and acknowledge that it was a mistake. One friend to say, I Bear Witness That With These Two Shitheads, Forever Does Not Mean Forever, And They Won’t Give You Back The Toaster.
    It felt like something more was needed. Where was the ritual matching that fateful ceremony that would unbind ourselves? Just one person? Really?
    “This is…I’m sorry, I don’t know why this upsets me, ” I choked.
    “It’s okay,” she said, “This is why I have tissues, this is emotional stuff, and I see it all the time, don’t worry.” Her shirt was a toilet-paper pink.

An open space for your story

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s