She sings when she thinks no one’s listening and it melts my
heart to hear her, because it really makes her happy. Almost as happy as when
she’s dancing.
She’s not a partner
kind of gal though I have seen her
follow the smooth steps of a male dance partner so I know she can do it. I think
she just prefers to do her own thing. Having
danced with her myself, I can’t say that’s a bad thing.
She loves music, and I dig that about her. I mean, like, she
really, really LOVES it. She doesn’t think she can sing though, so does it when she thinks no one’s around. Only, having
had the good fortune of sneaking up on her when she was belting out Janis, she’s
not half bad. I’m a musician so can say that with some authority. I’ve sure
heard lots worse.
“Yeah, well, my grandmother told me I should consider my
other talents when I expressed my childhood dream to become a singer,” gND
shrugs. “And, the father of my kids said I was off key and couldn’t keep a
beat. That didn’t stop me from singing for, then later, with my kids though,”
she confesses.
I have taken to singing in the choir, but she won’t come
listen to me. I doubt that I’ll be able to convince her to join.
“Not my thing,” she’ll state flatly. And, I know better than
to delve further into it.
After all, I
do find the old adage that we all come to God in our own time to be fairly
accurate. She thinks I’m arrogant when I
say this. And, maybe I am. I know she’s spiritual, she’s just not Christian and
I can’t help feeling as if she were half way there.
“You know what I am, though,” she taunts. “I AM a feminist and
a philosopher—one who’s getting pretty close to also becoming an anarchist.
That’s what I am.”
As if that makes up for it. I tread lightly, because I do
think the potential’s there to bring her to Christ.
“Why do you wear that scarf on your head?” I dare asking one
day.
“So my kids can refer to me as the Mennonite,” she jests.
“I don’t like it much,” I blurt out without thinking, which—by
now-- I should know better not to do in her presence.
“Why is it you think that should matter--what you like or
don’t like about me? You are not my man who I feel inclined to please.” Though that statement sliced me for some odd reason, she wasn't done. “Besides, who would
I be if I bent like a reed to be all that others think I should be? No one,
that’s who. I may not be much of anybody, but I'm at least ME.”
Well, there's honestly not much I can say to that, so I just shut up before
it’s too late.
“I always wanted to kiss a hippy chick in the middle of the
field at Woodstock,” I state. She just stares at me, trying to make the
correlation. Or, maybe, trying to picture me with one of her “peeps” as she
calls them.
“Yeah, it’s on my bucket list.” I smile, because believe it
or not it really is. I’m not just slinging shit, here.
Ever since I set eyes on the girl who became my first
girlfriend. She was an artsy type, like the girl next door is. She, too, lived
next door. As it turns out, she went to
the acclaimed festival, while I had to work and it wasn’t me she ended up
kissing in the rain at Woodstock. But, that’s another story.
The present day girl next door is smiling at me, knowing I’m
strolling down memory lane. She patiently waits for me to return to
the present knowing that we all come to the age where our memories are often all we've got.
“Yeah, well, it’s not gonna be me, buddy,” she laughs, as if to make the point.
Now there’s a thought.
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