Tuesday, April 7th

I was introduced to John Prine by a former wheelchair basketball teammate when I lived in Victoria. We’d train together and sometimes I’d go over to his apartment after and listen to music. I was 18. For most of high school, all I’d wanted was to sit on someone’s couch and talk about the meaning of lyrics: to turn the words over and over with someone, admiring them, holding them up to the light. I wanted to meet someone who cared about the same things I cared about, or better: someone who knew more about the things I cared about, and maybe cared about them more, and could introduce me to more things to care about. And now I was living in a new city on my own and finally, it was happening.

The first time I heard “Angel From Montgomery,” I closed my eyes and knew I wanted to write like that. To believe in this livin’ is just a hard way to go. It was like John Prine was writing about me. Of course, he wasn’t. I was 18. My years had not flowed by like a broken-down dam. I was not an old woman named after my mother, married to someone who’s another child who’s grown old. But I felt that shock of recognition all the same. I knew it was a song I would grow into.

And I felt that in “Sam Stone,” when he sings sweet song never last too long on broken radios: which I used to belt out in my car like an anthem when I was frustrated with my inability to ever get my shit together, or my body’s inability to get its shit together. And I felt it in “Dear Abby” when he sings you are what you are and you ain’t what you ain’t, which was a lesson I should have listened to John Prine about earlier. John Prine is the type of music I used to go on long walks to, back when I could go for long walks, back when I had alone time.

It’s been decades since I’ve known someone else who loves John Prine. There’s a particular kind of loneliness that comes from loving an artist and knowing that when your favourite song comes on the car stereo, no one else is going to sing along. No one’s going to say, “Man, this is a great song. It’s been years since I’ve heard it.” And when you like John Prine, you can’t even have the satisfaction that no one else’s music tastes are as cool as yours. You’re just someone whose music tastes run towards old dudes who can fingerpick.

I am not a great singer, but when you have a baby there’s a grace period where there’s a person in your life who doesn’t care. (That window has passed. I tried to sing along to “The Wheels on the Bus” with my toddler today and she said, “Mommy no wheels on a bus for you.”) And then you’re tired and lose your self-conciousness. And one day you find yourself on a warm summer night, standing on your porch rocking a baby who won’t settle, singing I am an old woman, named after my mother. My old man is another child who’s grown old as she nuzzles into your neck, as her little body gives up its tension. If dreams were thunder, lightning were desire, this old house would have burnt down a long time ago, you sing to her, and to yourself, because motherhood has you feeling both filled up and hollowed out.

John Prine died of COVID-19 today. He was one of my favourite songwriters. I didn’t go and see him the last time he came to Vancouver because I couldn’t find someone to go with. I should have gone anyways. He wrote boredom so well. He wrote characters who were waiting for something to change in their lives: for something to begin. He was funny. His last album is so damn good. Tonight, I sang “Sam Stone” to my daughter as I was getting her dressed for bed. She likes to stand on her changing table so she’s taller than me, then play with my hair. “Oh no,” she said, “Mommy’s hair is too messy,” tousling it in front of my face as I sang to her. “Don’t worry mommy,” she assured me, raking it out of my eyes and smoothing it down. “It’s good. It’s okay. Yes, okay, it’s good.”

Rest in peace, John Prine.