Frank Roberts' Letter

Lyrics

Just one year old.
Nineteen-oh-nine.
And this paper, white under the lamplight.
They call this place Ocean View.
It's a good name. An honest name.
But it's not the right one.

The fog here sits heavy on the water.
Not like the snow on the Hudson.
This Pacific wind doesn't carry the same stories.
Doesn't know the shape of the streets
I left behind.
A name is a map, a piece of string
tied to a finger.
And my string is stretched three thousand miles tonight.

So, little letter, here is the ink.
Here is the quiet scratch of my pen.
I am asking you to carry a whole city
inside your folded heart.
From my Albany
to this one.

They just put up the sign last year.
Nineteen-oh-eight. Fresh paint.
Full of ambition.
And here I come, a man with a memory,
asking them to take it down.
To trade a vista for a feeling.
To trade what they see from the hill
for what I see when I close my eyes.

So, little letter, here is the ink.
Here is the quiet scratch of my pen.
I am asking you to carry a whole city
inside your folded heart.
From my Albany
to this one.

A strange graft.
An East Coast branch on a West Coast tree.
Maybe it won't take.
Maybe they'll say, "Mr. Roberts,
the ocean is right there. We can see it."
But a name should be more than a description.
It should be an anchor.
A place to start from.

I fold you once.
And twice.
The ink is still wet.
Go on, now.
Carry the weight.
Albany.