Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
The whistling gets real old real fast. The words ring too true. The memories trailing along with the melody are bittersweet.
My jaw clenches and a pressure develops where my Adam's apple would be if I were a boy. However, with the release of that first breath I feel a sting in my eyes, fuzz in my nasal cavity and the tightening of my heart.
I love it.
Two of my very best friends moved out to West Virginia at the beginning of December to work as ski instructors. It didn't matter that they had never skied before.
So, we went.
Food and music: we were prepared. After driving through the night, nothing but the sunrise tinted with colors of salmon, cantaloupe and glacier water could give caliber to that drive into the peaks.
When I arrived, the house swallowed me in an unforeseen comfort. Finally with my friends, we were us once again.
They owned that town and could already ski down that hill. Backwards... while wrangling niños.
Also, they now know what radiators are. Life stops when you stop learning.
Only after spending my quarters on the juke box and my dollars on drinks did I borrow another friend's skis to zip down the bunny slope just to say that I did. That was enough. The rest of the weekend went by without a pause; we spent our limited time causing scenes and reveling in each other's familiarity.
The mountains were as majestic as our nation's anthems proclaim them to be and I was thrown back to the time of my grandmother's stories about kin folk and moonshine stills. The train tracks and plaid jackets strengthened the nostalgia that had, for me, permeated the tone of the trip from the genesis.
Alas, the tune escapes through my pursed lips and so it will be that the customer's will carry it through the cafe doors and out to the world. Home.
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