It’s a rhythm one could argue is difficult to not slow dance to and, in the sun and in love, I lifted her hand into mine and we danced together.
Everyone has a playlist of pain, the songs that bring the sometimes forgotten, partly processed pieces of our past to come rushing to the surface, raw, to be felt again.
Where I went to school, boys – men – didn’t dance. Not unless they were full of whisky bluster or beer bravado, anyway, and certainly not the way he was, his lithe body a study in confident, soft, expressive masculinity.
The celebrant spoke, but I didn’t hear a word. I fell into a trance, absorbing every once-in-a-lifetime second.
A piano is broken. Burnt, seemingly. A harp is stranded, unplayable. Chairs in a once lavish dining room are rotting.
Like a million fools before me, and a million more to come as sure as night follows day, I leave my virgin emotions unspoken, expecting osmosis to be a go-between.
No shaking shoulders and no audible sobs for this public crying needs to be invisible for the grief mask to be effective. "Don’t let the sun catch you crying", sings Gerry with his Pacemakers.
His closest friends at the time were those people who excel at throwing those parties that spill out of an artist's canvas of a house and should only exist as an amphetamine slideshow held together by ragged descriptions in Brett Easton Ellis novels.
It would be overstating it to say that we came to Melbourne because of Vince Jones. But it didn’t hurt that you can find performers of his calibre there.
Songs have been there for me when people haven’t. In the breadth of its short verses, it contains moments that capture everything I have loved about love and have been lucky enough to experience.