(for Ronnie James Dio, 1942-2010)
The road was our home. Fancying ourselves wolfish gypsies, with our women and sunset Supermen notions, we rode strange highways. Dio’s magical meaningful lyrics and acme animated vibrato had further inspired us to put vivid travel verse to murdered trees, real world rhymes to enchanting themes.
My friends and I had been caught between adolescent heavens and hells, our protective devil’s horns pushing against hormonal confusion, and our mob-rule cannibal families. Coffee, heavy metal and powdered suns fueled our night flights, arrogant clever sentences yelled and penned, pedal to literal metal: the rush-intensity of these recorded experiences were the things we hoped would define us.
I settled down when I met her, a roadside rock n’ roll angel. A waitress, she’d cranked up “Holy Diver” near closing, belting out the lyrics with us. Later, with her hair falling across her sapphire stare she’d entranced me; I knew I’d met a stay-true heaven, a blissful slip-away from road lag, cold coffee, flat tires and crabby car mates.
Two decades passed.
The day Dio died, that girl – my wife – pressed her soft curves against me when she saw me mourning.
“I’m not wearing panties,” she promised. “Grab your Dio CDs and we’ll ride.”
Copyright ©2010, 2011 Steve Isaak. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.