For Jade.

Fado.

As if Fado were just a word. We who love this music know it puts into notes what the heart cannot say. We know God’s tongue is Portuguese.

J: David!

Me: Yes.

J: Could you turn that down a little? (Why am I not surprised?)

Me: Yes.

Somewhere in these songs are the cries of ecstasy that all too often hide the breaking hearts.

Suddenly I am not white, I have no prick. But I listen and of these losses I care not a whit.

It’s what happens when music pours into an emptied heart.