You resolve to simply never think about Harry Styles, or One Direction, ever again.
My daughter takes me to a movie that she’s already seen and thinks I will like. The movie is so-so, but there’s a song in it that I love.
It was strange: I listened to it, and the unspoken words hanging between us were suddenly said – not by him, or me, but by this angelic voice from afar. It was an admission, an apology. No, it was a plea. No, maybe it was just a song.
I take off and pedal cross the road. The waa-waa synth-like drop begins, and the drums kick in as I, too, drop onto the Merri Creek path, a petite valley sectioning the northern suburbs of Melbourne.
Michael Leach joins the dots between Elvis, Memphis, Marc Cohn and Florence Welch. And teacups.
The blue star light went to my room, the Pokémon poster and books went to my sister, and the guitar went to a corner in the living room, where everyone fights the urge to strum it when they walk past. What are we if not pieces of our older sibling, broken off and handed to us as they grow?
We start with magic tricks; whilst I make things disappear I am gauging their interests, their humour, their energy.
...we laugh in fear’s face and sing words first sung by TLC...
Why had nobody told me the descent from the mountain would be so much harder and more painful than the ascent? And when was this ear-worm going to disappear?
On her trip, she bought a baggy t-shirt at a thrift shop. Being the resident movie/book/music encyclopedia, she had asked me while she was gone if I had heard of Gregory Alan Isakov.