Four years ago yesterday, your Monkey sat in a room on the second floor of a nursing home on a hot summer day and tried vainly to read a book while minding his dying grandfather.
Yesterday, your Monkey sat in his room on the first floor of his apartment building and tried vainly to play his guitar while waiting for the news of yet another slow and painful death in the family.
The book offered no comfort for the Monkey four years ago. He can remember everything else from that day — the sun streaming through the windows, the Gordon Lightfoot song playing over the PA system, the deathly ill look on his grandfather’s face — and yet the name of the book escapes him.
Last night, the guitar was no comfort either. He picked the mournful notes of “Yesterday” and yet his troubles did not seem far away. They seemed very close. It was almost as if they had come to stay.
Four years have gone by. Identical bright sunny May days. Eerily similar situations. And once again, there is nothing to provide a distraction.
Ugh. Here is a much more talented guitarist playing Yesterday (not your humble Grumpy Monkey).