The welcomed taste of Two Rivers on tap still lies on my tongue lightly woven with raw onion and a tiny hint of anise. My friends faces full of throaty laughter are pressed in my thoughts like pretty flowers lost in a book. This evening held a date with Jessica Alba through the city's powdered streets, the first bike spill of the season in the middle of the street in the Village, a single flat tire, a winter walk with my lady on my shoulder, an hour spent tuning methodically on the floor of my home while listening to the most prized vinyl score of the season, a long letter to L, a quick cup of coffee, a happy car ride to arena land with Rags, Scotch and Detroit. The boys morphed into twelve year old boys in front of our eyes in the cold parking lot of the arena. Watching them, I was eleven again playing in a snowsuit at the Rosenort arena with Chantelle. Perfect, I haven't been eleven in a long, long time. Rags was not at all phased by the quick transition but I watched them, transfixed. They ran for the dressing room to join their team the No Regretzkys and suited up for the game. Rags and I sat behind the glass eating my mum's fresh paypenate and catching up. I love that woman. Rabbi, Boots, Kit and Strangler rolled in in a flurry of parkas and laughter and Kitty and I ran for each other. Her legs are one hundred miles long. I almost forgot since she moved to the mountains to become a journalist. It was almost relieving to see her; I do not know the word to describe it. It is nice to be reminded with no words at all that I have generous friends. Generosity of self. Friends who give a shit about family (their own as well as ours), who continually waive my habit of slept-through brunches and high teas with absolute grace. In the way they care for me, I care for them and thus we care for each other. These people are hilarious and animated and ridiculous and all very different in personality, but on nights like these when we sit nine strong around a table loaded with post-game pitchers and greek salads and veggie burgers and samosas, I feel very lucky. Kit, I am so glad you are home for now. I missed your willowy frame around the table, so much so. In the words of my current muses, I am radiant in gladness for them and the season that lies in wait before us. Floor hockey tournament try outs start next week. The Zamboners are going to reign over the league that has yet to be given life. Earl Grey community center (or wherever) will never be the same. Neither will Martha Street studio after I finish printing our jerseys. Dad, looks like you will have a hockey player daughter after all. Awesome.
And now, a song from musical wizards Daniel, Fred & Julie.
I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair. Born like a vapor in the summer's air. I see her tripping where the bright streams play. Happy as the daisies that dance on her way. Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour. Many were the blithe birds that warbled them o'er. I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair, floating, like a vapor on the soft summer air. I long for Jeanie with the day-dawn smile. Radiant in gladness, warm with winning guile. I hear her melodies like joys gone by. Sighing round my heart over fond hopes that die. Sighing like the night wind and sobbing like the rain. Wailing for the lost one that comes never again. I long for Jeanie and my heart bows low, never more to find her where the bright waters flow.
Goodnight moon, she sleeps.