Essays, Art and Plays by Dan

The poem

Dad’s harmonica
blues in the key
of dust
— Edward Cody Huddleston,
Prune Juice, July 2025

My comment about why I selected the poem:

Introducing this poem, Dan writes:

This poem really touched me because I enjoy playing the blues harmonica and blues music reaches you in ways that words cannot. The blues harmonica isn’t just an instrument. It’s a voice. A cry, a whisper, a celebration—sometimes all three in the span of a single breath. Playing the blues harmonica is like opening a window into someone’s life. Every note bends and sways like a human voice—full of pain, love, grit, and hope. That signature “blue note,” that little twist in the sound, is where the magic lives. It’s what turns a simple tune into something magic. What made the harmonica so special was how far it could go—literally and emotionally. It was cheap, tough, and small enough to carry in a pocket or a boot. So it followed people—onto trains, into fields, through cities. I’ve been playing this tiny harp for years and somehow, it still surprises me.

My critique/imaginary response by the absentee father to the poem:

RESPONSE BY THE ABSENTEE FATHER

It’s the Ides of March today. That’s what the calendar says. Wind’s cold, real sharp. Got that feelin’ like the sky knows somethin’ you don’t. I been sittin’ on this bench with my old banjo, watchin’ folks pass by, thinkin’ ‘bout my boy. Ain’t seen him in—Lord, I couldn’t even tell you how long. Too long. Long enough for him to grow up without me.

Back when he was little, I was gone more than I was around. Chasin’ music, runnin’ from myself. Playin’ gigs for gas money and pride, sleepin’ in truck beds, drinkin’ too much. Told myself I’d come back with stories. Told myself I was doin’ it for him. But the truth is, I was scared. I didn’t know how to be someone’s daddy. Still don’t.

Today I held the phone in my hand for near an hour before I hit dial. My fingers was shakin’, and that ain’t just from the arthritis. “Hey son,” I said, “it’s me.” Just like that. No speeches. No excuses. My voice cracked halfway through, like the string I broke on the third fret this mornin’. I ain’t callin’ to fix it all. I ain’t askin’ to be let back in. I just wanted him to know I’m still here. That I think about him. That I’m sorry—for all of it.