This time of year does strange things to me. I tend to get a little weepier than usual, though I don’t know why. I suppose falls do that to people.
This October afternoon, the golden light from the setting sun streams through my palladian window, nearly blinding me when I glance at the bright spot on my hardwood floor. It’s a good excuse to let a tear form in my eye.
Yesterday, I talked to my friend, Shane, who owns the studio where my daughter takes guitar lessons. I wanted to hear his thoughts on Taylor Swift’s new song, and we ended up chatting about music while my youngest worked on honing her skills. He asked what I’m planning to do with my music, considering a few years ago, it looked as though I was going the artist route. I told him I’m too old for that, and there’s space for me in the singer-songwriter family.
The conversation rolled around in my head all day today. As I often do, I turned on some music while I cooked dinner. First, I listened to “Hank (Rolling In My Grave)” by The Henningsens. I love to sing the harmony part on that haunting song. Then, I listened to the “Barton Hollow” album by The Civil Wars. At some point in the midst of singing along with the songs I know by heart, I felt the familiar ache that comes from missing singing with others.
