23 January 2013 fiction, "My Favorite Song"

My favorite song has been my favorite song since before I can remember. I sang it when I was little, leaning my head past the constraints of my seatbelt, gripping the car window with every ounce of strength I could muster, and breathing in the fresh air. I gulped it in, loving every second I had with the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. My mom would smile and laugh, aware of my spirit and embracing how free I allowed it to be.

I remember when I got my first Walkman. What a piece of technology I held in my hands! Of course the cassette tape of my favorite song was the first thing I bought with the rest of my birthday money. I don’t even remember if I bought anything else to listen to, the melody of my favorite song took over my ears and my memories. It soothed me. My childish hands would press play again and again, rewinding when needed. I smiled when it started, screamed the lyrics to the point of losing my voice. I felt beautiful when I sang.

When I was eleven years old, I experienced my first heartbreak, and my favorite song was the shoulder I cried on. Boys were stupid, everything was wrong until I got home and sang along to my favorite song. I put in my headphones and my ancient Walkman, and I sang loud and proud into my hairbrush microphone. Cliché, but I actually did it. I became beautiful, confident, happy. For three minutes and forty two seconds, I was queen.

When I moved to a new high school at age fifteen, my favorite song was what I listened to every night as I cried about the dance to which I had no date, the friends who were social without me. I sang and everything was all right. I was me again, happy and carefree. I could go back to all the summers of my life, the reflections of summers that grew better with time.

The first time I got drunk, I sang my favorite song. I didn’t need the music, I knew it by heart and could perform every instrument with just my vocal chords. Each necessary sound was easy when I had my memories and the magic potion that erased my self-consciousness. No one sang along with me, but they laughed and clapped me on the back when I had finished performing. What great friends, I thought as I swallowed. I truly believed in the magic of alcohol and partying. It brought people together, with only the morning to part them. But as long as the sun still set I could go back to being friends with everyone, laughing and singing my favorite song.

My favorite song is what I played on a loop in my car as I drove from my house to my new life at college. I was ready to start fresh. High school was so old news, and I was dead tired of dealing with all the immaturity. I was going to college. A place where girls respected themselves and boys wore glasses and everyone was happy and learning how to go into the rest of their lives. I played it as I unpacked my bags, and I played it to get to sleep that first night. My favorite song, the song that got me over mountains and through oceans. It had supported me thus far and it would support me forever.

I learned in graduate school that my favorite song is not the best one to listen to while studying. It makes me want to jump up and dance, and that is not something a good graduate school student does while being studious. I failed one final and decided to give my favorite song a rest. It had helped me to get to where I was now, maybe it was time I helped myself.

My favorite song is the song I danced to at my wedding. All my friends knew enough about me to realize they would have to dance to it as well, listening to my off-key voice and laughing along with me.

My favorite song is what I listened to as I drank a beer and signed my divorce papers. It relaxed me. I smiled, and signed. But the weird thing was that when it ended, I didn’t feel like rewinding. I did anyway, and felt good for another three minutes and forty two seconds. But the memories of all my fabulous summers of being young faded as quickly as the smoke and mirrors of my first marriage.

My years of being a single mother forced me to lay my Walkman down and forget to pick it back up. There was a lot of time I spent cleaning, and wondering where I had put my favorite song. I remember when my son went to college. It was the saddest and also proudest day of my life. I wished only to listen to my favorite song to commemorate it. But my Walkman was gone, disappeared, as all things of the past tend to become.

When my son came home with his new girlfriend, he had a present wrapped up in cheap wrapping paper and tied with a messy bow. I loved him so much, but vowed that before she left, I would tell his girlfriend to wrap all presents in the future. When I opened it, I think my jaw dropped to the kitchen floor and I blinked a few times to realize if it was real or a beautiful mirage. My Walkman. And my favorite song still there! I hugged him, and didn’t even bother asking where he had found it or why it had been with him. I walked into the bathroom, and listened to my favorite song. It was crackly; I had forgotten how different technology had gotten. I still knew most of the words, but found myself taking the ear buds out before it was over, noticing how long I had been in the bathroom and wondering what my son and his girlfriend were up to.

Each time I listened to my favorite song after that, it became harder and harder to remember the bliss it brought me. I remembered everything I had done. I remembered leaning out the car window, my hairbrush, flavored vodka. I remembered my Volkswagen Passat, and the dirt swishing through my hair, and my uncomfortable college bed. I remembered that psychology test that ruined me, and I remembered my wedding and divorce. But somehow those memories seemed less important when I opened my eyes again and realized that the days were long gone. I listened to my favorite song and wished for the blissfully unaware feelings I had gotten before: looking forward to the future, and always with my favorite song as the soundtrack of my life.

The day my Walkman finally broke was the day I finally realized. Life moves faster than anyone is ready for, and change overtakes every habit and routine. My favorite song made me realize that nothing lasts forever, not memories, not happiness, not depression. Solaces last only as long as you let them. You only need them until you realize that. I never bought another Walkman, and I haven’t listened to my favorite song in years. I could look it up on the internet, I guess, but I’d rather close my eyes and recite the words in my head, dreaming of the better times for three minutes and forty two seconds. Smiling as my lips move and my breath fills the air. When I open my eyes and stare at my dark ceiling, I smile again, hoping for the future to be as enlightening as my past.