Granada Theater, Dallas, 2010. A cold Sunday just after New Year’s, and the three of us, friends who felt like brothers, slid into the crush near the front. The Avetts stepped out with their arsenal of strings. Upright bass, a mournful cello, banjo bright enough to cut through winter. I felt the first shiver at the downbeat and the second when their voices locked. Two bearded men, no artifice, just the kind of harmony that makes you remember the names of your ghosts. I was carrying a lot then, fear and pride and unasked questions, and the music loosened the knots without humiliating me. It told the truth in a voice I could stand. By the end, I wanted to call people I had drifted from. I wanted to say things that had become hard to say. Some songs do not just play. They give you permission.

… Dumbed down and numbed by time and age
Your dreams they catch, the world, the cage
The highway sets the traveler's stage
All exits look the same

… Three words that became hard to say
I, and love, and you