We were sittin' round the supper table and the buzz of the frigidaire
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Was the only sound 'til momma laid down, a book she found upstairs
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It was covered in dust in the back of the closet,
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Goodwill box we almost tossed it out
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We could have lost all those memories
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There was a picture of mama in the pouring rain
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Ticket stubs to a Braves game
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Silver star and a baggage claim from Hanoi, Vietnam
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There was a picture of him callin' on grandpa
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Leather skin from a baseball
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We laughed and cried, told stories all night long
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From the book of John
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Now the pot of coffee's almost gone, as we turn another page
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We're climbing on him like a Jungle Jim, watching his hair turn gray
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All the Polaroids are just reminders,
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You can't hold life in a three ring binder
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We flipped on through 'em anyway
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There's a picture at his sister taken in July
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On the steps of the church pulling out his tie
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Hair's still wet from gettin' baptized, the brand new blue suit on
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An old set of keys to his Chevrolet
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A crumpled up receipt for a wedding ring
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We watched ourselves grow up there in his arms
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In the book of John
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That sun came up, we were wide awake
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Head to toe in black and gray
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Long black Lincoln waiting down the drive
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He was father, son, husband and friend
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I still flip through it every now and then
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When I need just a few words of advice
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It's almost like he's not really gone
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And I know one day I'll be passin' on
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The book of John
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Book Of John
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| Tim McGraw |
