Jason Roweth



Finding your roots while looking for elsewhere.

A musician's journey home.





a story


July 10, 2017

David’s earliest memory… Christmas, and clinging koala-like to his dear Nan’s hip, and waltzing giddy “You are my sunshine, my only…” How old? He’s tiny… He must’ve been two, three tops. The recollection is golden joyous. 

Now it’s Christmas, David is fifty-one, and Nan is dying. He gathers his own family, smallest child on hip, and sings into the microphone “I dreamt I held you in my arms.” He drops the recording onto CD, piles kids in car, and drives the six hours to his Nan in less than five. 

Nan is holding on at home - David’s first home - for her beloved Christmas. They help Nan to her chair, and put up decorations - willing her over the line to Christmas time. No one is confident, but David looks in her eyes and has a shy hope that she’ll make it. The angel on high on tree, they sit and play Nan her recorded gift.

“Our song”, Nan’s spirits lift and she manages a chorus “You make me happy, when skies are grey.”

David and the kids swing in, “You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take…” No one completes the chorus.

Nan is so small, so reduced, that he could have taken her on his hip. They hold hands, and her eyes smile sunshine tears.

He can’t leave… Until - he leaves - the kids sleep in silence. He “hung his head and cried.”

Nan made Christmas, then flew away into song.

Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Please reload

I'm busy working on my blog posts. Watch this space!

Please reload

Featured Posts

Night falls, a piece-perfect puzzle. David Broughton wipes Napoli pizza grease on blue jeans, and holds cool pinball glass. Achingly familiar, impossi...

Forever, and No Time at All

July 18, 2017

Please reload

Recent Posts

July 24, 2017

July 18, 2017

July 18, 2017

July 18, 2017

July 18, 2017

July 18, 2017

July 12, 2017

July 12, 2017