I finally splurged on an iPad and in doing so decided to upload all, and I mean all, of my cd’s to my iTunes account. Once I began, I was committed. I needed the space. I needed to feel liberated, hip and in touch with the present century. Instead, I found myself caught up in the past. Small tight smiles and waves of nostalgia crossed my face, furrowed my brow, jogged my treasure box of memories buried away, waiting to be woken. I came across songs that reminded me of a first love, long, lazy summer days, “He who cannot be named” and “He who never knew” and songs, where I knew every word, that years later, still tugged on my heart. Music I would listen to when I fell in love; thank heavens the song changed each time. And music I would listen to in order to move on. As each album downloaded, I saw and heard parts of my life flick by like an 8 mm film. And then I came across an Etta James song (I believe the lyrics were by Irvin Berlin). I was 26 and in Paris. Life was in front of me and rich with promise. I was staying on the Left Bank and the sun was reluctantly waking up and unfurling its delicate rays through the endless, cloudless sky. I had thrown the windows open to embrace the day and in doing so heard music playing from an attic dormer window not too far away.The lyrics still haunt me:
