It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?

Gosh, is there a song as sad out there? Well, probably. But this Dylan song is merciless in its depths. It just keeps going. I find it rather fitting for the season we are in, with the hard slanty yellow light, the flaming trees, and the sudden barren branches.

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?

When my friend Chela and I watched Scorcese's Dylan documentary, it was so hard for us to believe he was only twenty when he wrote songs like these. Can you imagine? Unlike my friend, I did not grow up with parents who idolized Dylan. That is to say, he was someone who I had to discover on my own. Or through various boyfriends that left their albums behind.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?

The thing that we really lamented though, was not being part of a scene. Whether it was Haight Ashbury, the beats, folk music, or even Warhol's factory, we both had to admit we had never been included in a movement that seemed to have that kind of frenzy, passion or verve. Hell, we even missed grunge. And honestly, by the time you reach our age, could it even be possible?

Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?

So we sat in her house, while her kids were asleep. We made tea and watched how Dylan became great. We ate cookies, wore slippers and stayed up late. Then we felt sad, and old and hopeful and small.

But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.