
A Song for Last Tuesday
My daughter can already hum One More Idea. Listening with her sent me into a question about musical phrasing, movement, and what a familiar tune might let someone do next.
From the journal

I arrive early, arrange my computer, and wait. Half an hour can pass before anyone else comes. My mind is surprisingly inventive about what that empty room might mean.
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My daughter can already hum One More Idea. Listening with her sent me into a question about musical phrasing, movement, and what a familiar tune might let someone do next.

I brought a selection of art and writing into our conversation. Harold Bloom, Beethoven’s unsent letter, two clocks, and a snail we could not see gave us quite a lot to disagree about.

I disliked the mournful piano-and-strings finale. I wanted the open-hearted energy of a Y2K boy band. Only later did I begin to understand why those young voices belonged in a search for someone’s grandmother.

My friend finds the beat with his hands and his feet. An old film melody, Irish dancing feet, and an Indian dancer’s hands began to suggest a song I would never have found by choosing a genre first.

I did not lack curiosity about my parents and grandparents. I lacked sustained attention. An outsider can ask a question so obvious that nobody who grew up in that house would think to ask it.

A serving platter that appeared at thirty family Thanksgivings may become “serving platter — $25” at an estate sale. I keep thinking about the dinner table it belonged to, and what might travel with it into the next chapter.

“Mom, why are you so brave now?” Vivian asked while we were putting on our ice skates. I hadn’t thought of myself as particularly brave.

A magazine caption names turquoise Naugahyde, fruitwood, brass, and fabrics that a monochrome photograph cannot show. The research began changing the way I wanted the whole encounter to unfold.

The drawings could tell me how a house was arranged. They could not tell me what it was like to live there. Following that difference led from architectural papers to a song.

My relatives could see immediately what the reconstructed room had got wrong. The corrections gave us somewhere to begin: objects, arrangements, and all the things the picture had not known to ask.