I remember those nights

You were here once, but you’re gone now. The cold, flat emptiness of the streets is a dead giveaway. I just need to take the hint and move on.

Tonight, I made the acquaintance of an older gentleman who organizes estate sales for a living. We met at the counter of a tiny diner, not the cleanest place in the world but the atmosphere is comforting. I bought him a cup of coffee. Now, it wasn’t Morning Call or Raimond’s signature blend–but it was tasty enough.
We spent hours talking–imagine that. Everyone used to tease me about how my elderly patients became chatterboxes around me. Well–I’ve still got the gift.
My new friend gave me a chance to preview his current project, an event at one of those charming Brownstones.
The boxes were dusty and crumbling but the best finds are usually at the bottom of the pile. The couple who lived there must have loved the arts. Poster, playbills, musical scores–all signed and dedicated. Their collection was extensive and it seems such a tragedy to sell it off in pieces. I wish I could have heard their stories, carried their memories forever, added their history to our archives.

I bought two posters, rescued them from the dirty basement. They brought memories slamming back, like it was yesterday–JazzFest, 1970. I met Mahalia Jackson, remember? It was a relaxed, local festival in those days, not the wild bash it is today.

I think…no wait–I know. I need to go home.
I’m taking the hint.

 

 

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