Last Friday, the sun warmed my backyard after a long day of cleaning floors and dusting cabinets. I even wiped down the ceiling fans, people. At five, I got a shower and went off to pick up dinner at the pizza parlor, my weekly rendezvous.
I don’t know how else to describe it, other than it felt like the end to a perfect spring day. The kind of day where you eat with the dining room windows open and smile at the breeze, your old friend. It was the kind of day whose warmth makes your skin slightly golden, a flower that is ready to blossom after the dark days of February.
Inside the pizza parlor was a radio. On the radio was “Let the Music Play.”
It was a song I remember from sitting in the backseats of cars when I was a kid. The kind that had all those weird keyboard sounds that made you feel like you were in a club, that you were really older than all the grown-ups knew you to be. Then, when I was in college, a friend of mine started singing along to this song on the radio, and I told her, That woman is totally deluded. The man is not dancing back to her. He is probably just looking for the bathroom.
And I said, God doesn’t really care about what this woman does.
She got really annoyed.
But all that is behind me. The thing I felt in the pizza parlor when I heard this song was, mostly, young, like a newly budded hyacinth. (And not some mothery, withery old thing.)