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In Memories

by Night Windows

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1.
Amazed at how fast they can erect yet another Dollar General. You say I drink black coffee ‘cause I hate myself — sometimes I wonder if it’s true. Oh, forgive me for using the best parts of me on strangers and coworkers. You don’t want to be flashy, but I know you need to be seen. You’re not the only one. Walking down our street after Isaias, you rolled up your jeans to keep them dry. A sigh of relief then you asked me if I still believe. Instead, I’m thinking and talking about habits I need to get into, or break. There are too many people on earth, but far too many words left unsaid. You’re not the only one.
2.
Broken Glass 03:00
When that last grocery store in town turned off its automatic doors, the world revolved around departure times. You took the bus, she packed her things. Count broken bottles, she pulled away from the plateau that was her day-to-day. So let us raise a monument, or at the very least a toast. “Here’s to the bed you made out on the couch.” I was just a broken kid back then. Always apologizing for things I never did. Was guilt baked in or learned along the way? Some need a place to fit in, others a place to hide. Some need a god on their side, others are just fine. Some have hunger pains - I’m sure they’re barely scraping by. Others have everything they could ever dream of. A hand to hold when all you really want is to let go.
3.
There’s got to be a way to believe. You smile trying not to sound so sad. Things could’ve went a whole lot different. Hard to stay quiet, harder to explain so many different things. From shining shore to remapped flood zone, property taxes manufacture ghosts. And I know where they live, what rooms they root through. Hard to stay quiet, harder to explain so many different things. Oh, God. Oh, God of Abraham, how you mean so many different things.
4.
Annapolis Rd 01:59
Another boarded up window in this town. Where the seagulls, they float high above sea level taunt. Where the cancer hides inside tile floors where your cigarette butts used to land. Now, your voice is lower as you share dreams of moving to higher elevation. Is this the way it’s always been? Driving around to count the vacants… And I want to feel bad, but can’t manage to feel at all. Headed past the Wawa that forced out that lovely little ma and pa shop. Where you said your mom and dad may have met, but you can’t recall exactly what they said. I need to believe I’ll see you like I used to.
5.
You said a prayer on your thirtieth. Five beers in, beautifully delivered. May we learn by example and mistake. May we learn to tolerate. I don’t go out unless I’m out of town. Afraid I’ll see my own reflection at that watering hole. Now that he works indoors on rainy days, something new to tolerate. Still scrolling through your messages, wishing I could’ve been a better optimist. Moments ago over the phone, you told me how she counts the days and can’t wait till school lets out. Her lateness saved her from standing in the rain. A few more weeks to tolerate. Still scrolling through your messages. There must have been something that was said. I can’t listen to Can’t Slow Down, can’t drive past your mother’s house. The way these farm fields make me think of you, I can’t begin to tolerate.
6.
She 03:31
A room where you wake, half mast eyelids. A smile just as fake as it needs to be to get you through the friction you’re faced with. A hangover will sober your mind right up, like a car accident after dark. Through those flashing lights you strain to recognize headlights or anything. Oh, she pushes her earbuds in, ‘cause sometimes it’s hard not to think too much. Out past that front door, you see your reflection. From a wastebasket a crumpled note longs for rain, as you race to comb the shame away. Positive you’re forgetting something. Oh, she inches the volume up, ‘cause sometimes it’s hard not to think too much. You told me in confidence that you were drifting up in outer space like a lost soul. Selecting yet another stock phrase. She sleeps with the TV on, ‘cause sometimes it’s hard not to think too much.
7.
You used to let your shirttail show. Still in the same room but staying quiet. Frequently disappear, wondering why you’re stuck at home. You used to want to see his face. Well, it’s invisible until it’s on fire. Like an earthworm crawling its way to the sidewalk to make one last letter. When she died I struggled to find the words, and I can’t tell if I feel worse about that or the fact it felt like just another day. You texted on your way to work, said what a sad way we’re living our lives now. But Monday’s coffee makes me think of tomorrow I thought. You’ll feel better once you make it to the middle of the morning or maybe lunch time. I’ve been trying to learn to compartmentalize, put it outside of my mind. The first five-day week after a holiday hits loud and hard, and I can’t understand why it can’t feel like just another day. Why can’t I picture you in color? From a windowless room, wondering why does it always hit me when it’s inconvenient? The produce aisle or a party, the drive to work it moves me, a conference call or the front lawn, your favorite shirt, I’m still wearing it. It's not as green as it once was, but dumb luck finds the front door to just another day.
8.
No will to live. Long to fill yourself with lies that barricade. You hide behind. No one sees in first-person what you do, who’s knocked you down, or fucked you up. When you collapsed there on that kitchen floor miles below all you tried to ignore. All the dates you save and the magnets placed fade to grey. There’s the ceiling fan and the whimpering dog. The sun shines on the uncut lawn. But you feel the same as a rainy day, with one ear to the floor. You made plans to leave someday, but your east coast blood and brains are likely designed to stay. Heard an old man tell his tale, teary eyed he speaks of love and how it fucks you up. When you’re lying there on that kitchen floor. Cool tile on your cheek, ear, and jaw. Tempted to attempt a prayer right there in his name. All the crumbs that rolled just out of reach. The words you weren’t sure would even hit the fan start to sound insane, with one ear to the floor.
9.
Something to believe, gimme something to believe.
10.
No more constellations in the sky of your eyes. Gave into light pollution as a means to survive. A skyline, rap sheet, resumè. Reputation. The house you built, the food you eat, the places you’ve been. Photos you share, this life you swear is yours all alone. The early thirties panic. Where did all the years go? You’re learning all the names to all those indoor plants. Listening to records we used to listen to. Pretending I’m half-decent at the new things I do. Sometimes I fix you breakfast, sometimes I nap till noon. Standing in that cemetery there at dawn, you told your parents that you’d never felt so lost. When everyone you know is moving to the shore, why’s it always so hard to picture who you were? I’m still here thinking thoughts and singing these sad songs. Fixated on the price instead of what it all costs. With trash from every red and yellow fast food sign, littered then picked up by the river’s rising tide. If faith’s a gift, it’s one I wasn’t ever given. You pray for me, but I’d rather you ask me how I’ve been.
11.
Church Bells 05:43
Church bells woke me up, flooded with childhood thoughts. A castaway, the lone remains decay beneath the evergreen. Church bells woke me up at noon. Phoned five of my friends last night trying to reach you, or at least hoping maybe you had been seen. Church bells woke me up, from the garden to the mess it makes. I swore I could see your blue face, and now I sort through the strandline your highwater mark made.
12.
Paradise up in flames. Sometimes I worry I’ll never hear your voice again. Heard your dog over the phone. She was barking at the birds. Your windows: wide open. Called to ask about the snow, cut me off to let me know that you miss the seasons. I dream of paradise up in flames. Sometimes I worry I’ll never hear you laugh again. Still trying to learn to be on time. Trying to find the PSI. I took a knee on frozen asphalt, passenger side. Sure you miss the fall colors and dressing up in layers… You hardly remember why you hated it here. I dream of someday moving south. Then I wish for something simple: just get me to the house before the snow starts.
13.
Red Roosters 03:32
Goodbye to an era. Something to go with your disbelief every morning. Barn animals, they, know the cost of living, when even the best writers hide. It’s never what you meant, when there’s a hurricane trapped in your head. Like an old friend who says nice things but thinks, “who are you now?” There was that one day when red roosters eclipsed almost all of our pain. From a beach in south Jersey to more than a world away, they studied for times like these. But it’s never what it meant, though, when there’s a hurricane trapped in your head. Now a car alarm sings the only song it’s ever known. There’s no food on any dining room table. No life left in any living room. But we can silence the chaos from a television that we view. There’s a hurricane that never really left. Off the gulf coast shoreline from what I read. From our folding chairs, we feel the tide roll in. With the sand in between and underneath our toes and the shining sea.

about

Where do I go from here? Everyone is getting older. I’m losing people both to death and life. I’ve written about the sadness that comes with the gift of life, but never like this. This time, I leaned as hard into the sadness as necessary in order to feel better.

For Art, Margie, Thelma & Dot.

credits

released February 23, 2024

Night Windows is Ben Hughes (vocals, guitars, keys), Tad Lecuyer (drums, vocals) and Adam Smith (bass, keys)

Additional musicians:
Keys on Just Another Day by Adam Ahuja
Trumpet on Kitchen Floor by Eric Krewson
Vocals on Broken Glass, Nap Till Noon and Church Bells by Samantha Rosen

In Memories was home-recorded in Pennsville, NJ, from October 2021 to May 2023
Produced, arranged and performed by Night Windows
Engineered by Ben Hughes
Additional engineering by Adam Ahuja, Eric Krewson, Samantha Rosen and Adam Smith

Mixed by Matt Weber at Gradwell House
Mastered by Dave Downham at Gradwell House
gradwellhouse.com

All songs written by Ben Hughes (ASCAP) except: Gimme Something To Believe written by Ben Hughes and Tad Lecuyer

Artwork by Dot Gomeringer
Photos by Jessica Hughes

DIY doesn't mean you have to do it alone.

Thank you, Jess. I can't say it loudly enough, and I never could. Thank you Adam, Ed, Steph, and Tad. This record would not have happened without you. Along with Jess, you guys provided invaluable guidance and quality control (34 songs trimmed down to 13, lol). I consider it one of my greatest gifts to continue clocking the years with you.

Thank you Adam A., Eric, and Sam, for lending your talents, the Hughes and Smith families for lending their home-tape archives (Church Bells outro), the Woolman and Clemente families for permission to use Dot's painting, and Matt and Dave at Gradwell House. Thank you both for, once again, taking my home-recordings and making them sound like a proper record.

Thank you Fred, for your friendship and your guidance over the years. Your love and humility are things that I strive to emulate in my own life. Thank you Amy, Dan, Drew, Kevin, Max and Mikey for being transparent and stripping back the layers that are the elusiveness of the music industry.

Thank you family, and especially my older brother Josiah (who taught me how to play guitar and is arguably my biggest fan). And if you're reading this, thank you for buying a record or finding us in our little corner of the world wide web. Tad and I have made a promise to finish the next record before we're 40, so you should be hearing from us again soon enough.

To all of our friends and families, thank you.

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Night Windows New Jersey

Where do I go from here? Everyone is getting older. I’m losing people both to death and life. I’ve written about the sadness that comes with the gift of life, but never like this. This time, I leaned as hard into the sadness as necessary in order to feel better.

New LP "In Memories" out 02.23.24
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