Music has an altogether different sound in the dark. It takes on a swirl, a viscosity, a gentle scrape of the teeth along the primitive parts of the ear. My stomach feels it, in a way that reminds me of other nights, when I was a passenger. Not being in charge, for me, is liberating. There is a freedom that comes from just allowing the yes to happen, to seeing what will unfold and trusting that somehow it.will.workout.
Whether I hum it to myself or it brings goosebumps to the backs of my knees with the drowning volume, music is always with me, breathing the soundtrack to my life. There is a song, lately, that I only allow myself once every week. It reminds me of an evening, some months ago -- one of those nights that was deliciously unpredictable. Driving through downtown on to some predetermined *event*, I was surprised. I had joked and giggled and laughed and pinched all the day long and at once, in the moment that the street lights faded to on and the twilight melted into the sidewalks, the piano. I felt my eyes widen as I instantly fell into love. Whatever else happened that night, that song would come up in later nights, twisting me with the memory. I could describe what I wore, the perfume, the way that there were no parking spots to be had until the moment that the song ended. I could tell of the way I recalled the frustration of not remembering the name of it, the composer, nothing but the way I had felt that night.
The important thing is how I know that song, tonight. How it plays and I drive into the dark, just a little too fast along that one curve. The way that I wonder about what happens next.
Edwidge Danticat Reads “Sunrise, Sunset”
1 hour ago