Creative Non-Fiction Short Stories. :) Travel, Oldsters, Love, and Compassion.
Between the flute, the violin, and the piano, the melody comes together and I recognize it in a few notes. I seem to be the only one to catch the song straightaway. I smile, thinking of my English professors, a father and son who were experts in Irish literature. I think of days working as a receptionist at a women’s college in Indiana where an acceptable office soundtrack included a CD of the Irish Tenors. I have taken a full sweep through reverie before my neighbors begin to recognize the song as “Danny Boy.”
A group of women to my left, who all use headsets to hear the priest, lean close to each other and sniffle. An older man in front of me, tugs the sleeve of his adult daughter and sighs, “Do you know this song? Oh, I love this song.” His daughter shrugs, so he delights in the tune alone. Then he turns his head left and right, looking for others to commiserate. He finally turns nearly around and notes my wistful expression. He breaks into a full grin and I return it. There’s something to sharing this sort of memory with my neighbors. It means I begin listening more closely, remembering the lyrics, bringing the song from a distant place in my head and attaching it to this particular day.
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