Keith Moon and my Mother were in love

by Regis Boff

He insisted they had a connection.
It was awkward.
She was beautiful by any standard.
I showed him a picture someone had snapped of her it in a flowered smock. the common shapeless tent of a day dress popularized in the fifties.
The plausibility of his loving my mom seems far fetched I know. He could and did have most any girl he met. But things pointed to a flirtation between them. I thought I should tell someone. I am not certain why.
The trajectory of my mother’s life and death were much the same as his, inevitable and sad.
From a distance, I saw them both as hapless geese plowing into the propellers of aircraft​ taking​ off from God’s airport. Neither the plane nor their shared psychosis was willing to alter courses. So they had no chance.
I loved them both. My mother more. Their broken feathers scattered all around me. Moon’s drifted over everyone.

He was smitten instantly. After that, he would bring mother up to me out of nowhere wanting to see that picture.
When she died, conveniently between Who tours, he took it in pace. He did not often mention her again, except to pester about the hunt, which he had set me on, to find him​ a dress like the one in the photo. Of course, in his size.