THERE WAS ANOTHER picture of Lindy inside the liner notes. She was sitting, leaning against a tree in her suede jacket with the eight-inch cowgirl fringe. There was a cigarette between her lips and she was writing something. Under the picture was a little poem and the play list:
This is how I got here, this is who I am.
Don’t always do what’s smart or good,
Just do the best I can.
He read the play list.
Killing Me with Kindness
No Room to Grow
Wildcat Love
The Boy I Left Behind
Sunshine
Troubled Me
Out of Eden
The Way of Stone and Sorro
Anna
The Water Is Wide
He couldn’t see her face in the picture — it was lost in smoke. It was the jacket he found himself thinking about. He remembered playing with the fringe of it. He remembered how soft it felt. He remembered tracing the Indian embroidery with his finger.
He lay down now in his big red shoe of a childhood bed, with the map-of-the-world comforter pulled over him and his head resting against her picture.