ords have been exhausted in attempting to describe the haunted, spiritually pregnant work of artistic grace entitled Ohio. It has been dissected track-by-track, it has been hailed as the bands apex; "masterpiece," "ambitious," and the like have been stricken in ink by critics in mid-listen, and I find myself hard pressed to find anything else to add.

Maybe it’s alternative rock. Maybe it’s alt-country. Maybe Karin Bergquist’s ascending-dove voice, and Linford Detweiler’s (Ohioans and main Over the Rhiners) classical-poetry inspired lyrics have never connected this well. Over the Rhine lifted their hands and gave themselves over to producer Paul Mahern and an old 16-Track Analog 2" Tape Machine. The result displays Over the Rhine's truest essence spread over two discs. Gone is the glossy production of Films for Radio, the dated production of Patience and the lo-fi home recording of Good Dog Bad Dog. We're left with the band in their perfect state. A being of being. I am I am, God said. Ohio is am: be.

While listening to Ohio words and feelings pulsed in my fingertips. I wrote what came. A story of rejuvenation, of spirituality, of falling face-first with your arms tied behind your back and finding your way home. A glimpse of a man, his mother, and God. A glimpse of Ohio.

Over the Rhine my feelings were made manifest. I drank under the dim lights and in the cool breeze. The cement was warm under my shoes and the man passing me on the sidewalk spoke in a Cincinnati drawl unlike my own. I forgot my problems for a moment. I forgot when that hole first began to tear through my right-footed canvas shoe. I forgot the natural taste of my mouth as I lit another cigarette. But I never forgot Jesus. Jesus and Ohio.

In Hamilton County the ground's melody rose above the slight din of buzzing street lamps. I looked down before I remembered my mother's maxim: "Never look down when you can set your eyes above." As a child, I relished my witty retorts to her saying. I would prepare them beforehand, wriggling in child-like anxiousness, just waiting for her tone of voice to change mid-sentence, falling a key below normal, signaling my chance. I never learned, either. As I was bent over my mother's knee, she would intone somberly that "Jesus never used his wit against Mother Mary, did he?" I never answered, and she never asked twice.

Estranging my mother's maxims and my mother’s beatings and my mothers God, I kept my head down, and the melody I heard carried these words: "I want to do better, I want to try harder, I want to believe down to the letter. Jesus and Mary can you carry us across this ocean into the arms of forgiveness." I saw my mother sitting in her wicker rocking chair by the bay window with a Bible on one armrest and her knitting kit on the other. My eyes focused upon her hands moving so delicately, with love. Like a caress she threaded the outline of a cross. I buried her--alone--a fortnight later. I held her body in my arms that September evening and for a moment I was looking through Mary Magdalene's eyes at her son on the hill above. For so long I had blamed Mother. I had blamed her for this cursed inheritance. This never-ending penitence. I stood there and cried for the first time since her passing, there on a street with a sign that I couldn't make out, somewhere near Forest Park. I cried with my eyes set above. Like Mary. Like her Son.

My wing and my prayer, Mother was my reminder. Her God was more than a name. No, not her God. Our. I dreamt aloud and sang revelations in the night air, kicking a peculiarly smooth stone along the sidewalk as I wandered aimlessly. I soon realized where I was going when the rows and rows of slab granite appeared in front of me. I stood silently at the gates. I looked into the sky for something--anything. The wind was more than a presence with me that night, it was a sibling I never had, a father I never knew, and it guided me to her grave. I set down the suitcase that I forget I was carrying. Its utility was useless now. Staring down at her name on the smooth granite I knew I would never leave Ohio. I began to retrace the skin of her face in the air. I bent down and scooped a handful of dirt into my jacket pocket. It was warm and I knew what I had to do.

I don't know exactly how long it took me, but the day began to break when I reached the Ohio River. I yelled into the dawn sky for forgiveness. Forgiveness from God, from Mother, from everyone. I shouted until I was hoarse and moist-cheeked until I remembered what I came to do. I slowly pulled the dirt out of my pocket, recited a Hail Mary and threw the dirt to the wind and over the river.

My numb body seemed to ooze along the side of the road. The light had not yet fully peaked and the headlights of the cars raced towards me and disappeared. With my suitcase in hand I aimed my face homeward. Home where Mother taught me hope and humility, submission and sympathy, loathing and love. Over the Rhine I found my footing; I gripped the slipping rope; I was rejuvenated; my feet were washed. The lights from the headlights seemed closer. My suitcase hit the pavement before I did. The latches broke open upon impact and the lid lay open, the barren case laid agape. Only a Bible lay inside, open to Job 29:20.