“I Can Almost See It” is the ache of goodbye caught in motion—love receding like a train you can still hear, even after it’s gone.
Linda Ronstadt opened her Asylum Records era with “I Can Almost See It”, the very first track on Don’t Cry Now, released October 1, 1973. The song was written by J.D. Souther—and that detail isn’t just a credit line; it’s part of the song’s emotional DNA. Souther was not only a key songwriter in the Southern California country-rock circle, he was also one of the album’s producers (alongside John Boylan and Peter Asher), and he contributed three songs to the record, including this one.
Commercially, “I Can Almost See It” didn’t have a standalone chart run as an A-side single—but it did travel on the back of the album’s first 45: “Love Has No Pride” (issued October 1973) with “I Can Almost See It” as its B-side. That A-side reached No. 51 on the Billboard Hot 100, while Don’t Cry Now itself spent 56 weeks on the Billboard 200 and peaked at No. 45 in March 1974—proof that Ronstadt was steadily becoming more than a beloved voice on the West Coast scene.
But charts don’t explain why this track lingers.
What you hear in “I Can Almost See It” is a particular kind of sorrow: not the dramatic breakup with slammed doors and flying accusations, but the slow, adult kind where words fail and the body keeps remembering. The lyric’s central idea is heartbreak as something almost visible—like a shape in the air you can’t hold, yet you swear you can almost make out. The song speaks of goodbye, of time’s cruel patience, of taking another train only to realize “the tracks all look the same”—a perfect metaphor for those seasons in life when you keep moving because you must, while the inside of you is still circling the same loss.
Ronstadt’s genius here is restraint. She doesn’t perform grief; she contains it. Her voice—already famous for its clarity—sounds like someone trying to keep dignity intact while emotion insists on showing through. The song’s title is repeated like an involuntary thought, the kind that returns when you least want it: in the silence after a phone call, in the moment the suitcase finally shuts, in the small pause before you step out of the house and realize you are truly leaving something behind.
And there’s something especially poignant about the setting: Don’t Cry Now was Ronstadt’s first album for Asylum, a label associated with the singer-songwriter intimacy of the era, and the record itself reportedly took a long, costly road to completion—interrupted by touring and shifting production hands until Peter Asher helped bring it to the finish line. That sense of “unfinished becoming finished” lives inside “I Can Almost See It.” The song feels like a work-in-progress emotion finally spoken clearly, even if it hurts.
If you step back and look at Ronstadt’s career arc, the track becomes quietly prophetic. The mid-’70s would soon make her an arena-level star, but this 1973 performance still has the grain of closeness—like you’re sitting near the studio glass, hearing a great singer trust a simple song enough to let it stay simple. It’s also unmistakably J.D. Souther writing: conversational, road-worn, and emotionally precise, with that California country-rock habit of making the everyday—wind, trains, time—carry the weight of the soul.
The emotional “story behind the story,” though, is what the song does for a listener’s own memory. “I Can Almost See It” doesn’t demand that you recall 1973; it invites you to recall your version of it—some farewell where you tried to be brave, where you said the right things, or didn’t, and later wished you could reach back into the moment and soften it. The phrase “almost see it” is devastating because it suggests closeness without possession. Not denial—just the helpless nearness of what’s slipping away.
In the end, this is one of those Ronstadt deep cuts that quietly justifies her reputation as an interpreter of uncommon emotional intelligence. She doesn’t decorate the song with theatrics. She tells the truth plainly—and then lets the truth echo. And maybe that’s why the track still feels so human: because it understands the hardest part of leaving isn’t the departure itself. It’s the way the heart keeps turning around afterward, trying to picture what it already knows is gone—still whispering, I can almost see it.