How many other transitions in life are like this: inevitable, beautiful, a blessing, and a pain so deep its aches reverberate through generations.
I’ve derided this genre for too long. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.
So consider this a love letter from your faraway child.
Next Wednesday is just a Wednesday. No one has written any songs for Wednesday.
But for now, all I can think about is how out of place my Christmas trees looked when my neighbors have a cactus naturally growing in their front yard. And I will envy all y’all yanks up there.
And as the saxophonist stood to our applause, I silently thanked Mr. Moore for teaching me the language of time, imbuing this Saturday night with more meaning than it could otherwise have had.
Get your laughs in, Midwesterners, but for eight-year-old Caitlin, Texas was paradise.
“Oh,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, “Your mouth will start to tingle and go numb after a few sips. Don’t panic, that’s just a harmless side effect.”
By the end of the night, the musician had burned himself out, Ed was snoozing on a table in the back, and a thirteen-year-old girl who’d somehow snuck in was able to snag a selfie with “the Michigan Boys.”