this is the musical called my life

this one goes out to nanni- the best partner in crime a lady could wish for. . . there is no one i would have rather met in a waiting room but you.

have a great weekend and thanks all my thanks for reading.

Singing. We are signing loudly against the prius exterior songs from the past. A type of singing where you are almost yelling, yelling an old school classic that gets to the gut of the screaming sing and the hand motions and the sphere of friendship. We are there. Singing our hearts, our heads, our throats off while at the stop at Turk and some small cross street next to USF. It is the kind of stop that the other car across the way-our momentarily our neighbor-can see in through our window-a tv of real life. We don’t care we keep going. Singing and the hand motions Of years past when you learned hand motions. Now are in freestyle. The feelings of the prius can’t contain the singing as if no one is looking with someone you love. We really need to karaoke she says. We do. We will suck. Who cares. True. Our stage of the prius and turk street is ours.

Singing. Later when I had the luxury of the BMW instead of the usual nannymobile of the Corolla- I took her. Her on a drive. I wanted to. But instead we ended up at the UPS station to pick up her green shoes. I scroll through the ipod of my employer to find the right one. The right one that will touch that nerve of the combination of I haven’t heard this in years, I know almost all the words, time to sing and yell again. I’m scrolling until I reach- Eternal Flame. She walks back in with her box of anticipation of green shoes- will they fit. Will they fit? In all seriousness with a smile in the backdrop- I say this song is for you. Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling. Then we begin the belting out. The belting out of the lyrics you only know when the song is on. The windows are down and the sunroof is open and the music blasting in the system and we are singing in a bmw outside the UPS station. We don’t care. We keep going. Our stage moves locations like our cars. Like our cars. There is no talking. Just singing. Burning an eternal flame. And laughing. And moving our hands as if we have forgotten we aren’t alone.

Singing. We make up songs to old school ones all the time. Me and the kids. Yesterday, Y began. Hold me now. Please pick me up and spin my around. I continue turn around. Every now and then I want to. I can’t turn her down. She loves it when I pick her up and do some type of tricks we come up with in the fly. I don’t care about my back. I can’t turn her down. Look how strong Kate is- she says to her parents at each of their respective houses. Don’t hurt her they say. I keep picking her up because one day I can’t or won’t be able to.

Singing. We continue coming up with lines back and forth as I pick her up and spin her around the room. Singing and spinning and making up lyrics to the old songs. She used to say Kate can we sing a song in this decade- a tone of a tween. But now. Now we- me, her and her brother- all take turns singing the lines, made up through the tools of creativity or real, all taking a line, a line and singing to each other in our musical. In our musical. Called this is my life. I sing. Horribly. But have so much fun doing it.