Just imagine that song.
You know…THAT song that makes you remember…
That song where all of those memories come back so strong that you can almost feel the brush against your cheek, your temples, the scent of the cold space made warmer, as he puts the headphones over your ears, looking into your eyes so intently, that you swear you can still see him even after you close your eyes. That’s the moment you discover Leonard Cohen.
THAT kind of song.
Or when you were a kid and you hear America singing, and you see your bike flipped upside down, an impromptu prop for your imaginary ice cream truck. You stand 6 years old again with knee socks and short shorts, and skin so freckled that it’s like you were kissed by the Irish sun.
I smile when I think of a flight where I made fast friends with a beautiful flight attendant on a personal trip. I sat aisle and she sat middle and instead of watching movies or blocking each other out with walls of indifference, we played DJ to each other, sharing songs, laughter, and learning more about each other than we would have through conversation alone.
Or what about that time, on our second date, when he grabbed my hand in a room of virtual darkness, so close and with breath in synch, that my heart became just a bit fuller than I had thought possible.
Or when I hear a song from Ray Lamontagnes 2016 album and I feel Callie slipping away from me again, tears slicing trails across my cheeks.
The infinite power of music.
I remember last year when I thought my relationship needed a boost of creativity and connection. I suggested that he make a song list and I would as well, and with a splitter and 2 sets of headphones, we walked the City, visiting tourist traps and taking trolley rides, all while listening to our soundtrack. It was magical. Our hands drawn magnetically to each other, our steps organically synchronized. Our magic was so strong that day that people stopped us to inquire, to discover what we did differently.
We stopped, sitting on the stoop and smiled silently, with song serenading our souls.
Each moment made more real by music.
Each song was perfect and narrative and impossibly possible.
And with me yet some no more. I was changed, for better or worse.
What if life is just a series of events that happen in between songs? And the only moments that I remember upon death are those with a soundtrack?
Have I lived?
Have I discovered all of my songs?
What if there is no one song for my life but just beautiful additions, dancing me closer to my path, every song with an opportunity for less or more, but never all?
Does that make each sentimental song something less? Less powerful? Less magical?
I’d like to believe not…