It was January in Chicago and I was very tired. I hadn't prepared well for the concert and the Villa-Lobos was tragic. I should have memorized it. I should have practiced it. But I hadn't. Instead, I'd taped great sheets of paper together in some kind of master plan, but they fell off the stand and the pause was interminable. In the end Beverly started singing without me. We never performed together again.
The church was practically empty, anyway.
But my sister had flown in and my 85-year old granddad had flown in to surprise me and a not so great day turned in to a great one. I still remember it. I remember granddad clinging to me as we crossed the icy street to the Raffaello. I remember falling asleep playing pinochle with him. (I still have the deck we used. I don't remember the rules.)
I remember feeling loved and warm in paincold Chicago.
Now, Chicago is a decade behind me. Granddad's gone. My tiredness and career have trudged on. Lots of days between that one and this one, not so many great memories. The country descends down down down and I keep aging all the time.
And these are the things of life. A bad concert that no one went to. Wine and cards up in the air with snow fling all around. Surprises laughter family. And the memory of it all on Friday morning with coffee at a table miles and lifetimes away from there.
Gray clouds today. A large bird glides by as I look out the window, wings steady. It slides from view.