My dad’s thunder would pluck you out of a trance before you realized you’d entered one.

“What’s that crap you’re listening to!? Rock ‘n’ Roll? That’s not music; it’s shouting!”

Sixty years later, every nerve twitches when bombarded by the “music,” all words and volume.

I’m irrelevant. Just like Dad.

Eileen is a writer on good days, a crafter on others. She wishes the muse would sit on her shoulder more often.