The Singing Mailman Made His Last Delivery

When John Prine passed, I wrote this. I was sitting at my piano today missing his songs & my old friend Pickles who played bass with Prine in the 70’s — some voices never really leave us.

The singing mailman made his last delivery today.

A poignant, poetic treasure, John Prine was a Midwest hero of mine. His lines broke my heart, made me laugh, and ache in a way that felt like I was missing something I never knew I had. His songs have been the soundtrack to my toughest years. I’ve witnessed more love and tears to his tracks than any other.

Slow dances in small-town taverns… his songs hang heavy on my heart like denim sealed in cigarette smoke. His writing fueled the force of my own lyrical endeavors, and by way of my old friend Pickles, I was gifted a lens into Prine—hearing firsthand stories that testified to how wonderful he truly was.

I’m sad. Just goddamn heartsick to think—to know—we won’t hear any more truths penned by Prine.

I’ll hang on to some of my favorite lines and aspire to reveal truths in ways only he could. And I know I’m not alone in all this missing I’ll do, so I’ll recall my favorite records like I’d call an old friend.

And somewhere off in the distance, there’s a big goofy smile singing:

“Blow up your TV, throw away your paper

Go to the country, build you a home

Plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches

Try and find Jesus on your own.”

God bless you, John Prine.