I can’t remember when I found them, I just remember as soon as I saw them I had to get ’em.
That was us for a good 14 years, from my first gig as a 14-year-old until I gave up my spot on the bandstand a couple years after getting married.
I think I made them a Christmas present. And I was right. He treasured them.
For years afterwards, whenever I’d visit, he’d always point ’em out from their privileged perch on the mantle in the living room. “I smile every time I look at them,” he’d say. “They make me think of all the good times we had.”
And then we’d reminisce about those good times.
I know exactly what he means.
I took them back when we cleaned out the old house four years ago. Gave them a privileged perch on the shelves leading upstairs, so I’d see them every time I came home.
I smile every time I look at them. They make me think of all the good times we had.
That’s what I’d tell him if I could call to wish him a happy birthday today.
I can hear the sound of his voice pitching up the second he recognized it was me, as pure as the tone of his horn.
He was always genuinely glad to hear from me every time I’d call. What a gift that was.
That’s what I’m missing today.
I’d call him to wish him a happy birthday, and he’d be the one making me feel good.