you remember records

the snow swirls, the tea steeps, and i’m wrapped in the cozy sounds of sinatra’s velvety croons emanating from my grandparents’ vinyl.  i close my eyes and conjure up the joy of their 5 o’clock ritual.  of husbands and wives and sisters and brothers gathered together and celebrating life.  scotch splashing, ice cubes tinkling, as they glide merrily across their newly installed and oh-so-trendy linoleum floor with their highball glasses filled all-too-generously.

papa in his monogrammed golf shirt.  gama, in her smart red nails and superbly chic polyester suit and pearls, carefully selects another cigarette from her case, and with a flick of her floral brass cloisonné bic, she inhales relief.  tricks are won, tales are told, ivories are tickled, and everyone’s glasses and hearts and bellies remain generously full.  they.  are.  living.

and with a drop of the needle, i’m living right here, right there with ‘em.

the undisciplined tongue