The Soundtrack of Memories

My life has a soundtrack, bluesy rock that sounds like cooking with my grandfather on Sunday afternoons, mild indie rock that feels like cool fall air, and walking on pine needles, early 2000’s alternative that smells like cinnamon and my mothers perfume like leaf piles and peppermint tea. Noah Kahan and The Avett brothers memories that are smoky and vaguely sweet like fresh lemonade screaming with my best friends oblivious to reality. Flushed faces from laughing, crowded rooms filled with familiar faces, the remnants of an abandoned game of pictionary on my grandparents table alongside empty wine glasses. 

I’ve spent my life dancing in the kitchen from the grainy videos taken on a camcorder hairbrush as a microphone, my mothers' laughter in the background. To swinging my sister around the kitchen, rainy day dance parties, the kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt. My brother smiles despite insisting he doesn’t dance, the plague of teenage embarrassment keeping a tight grasp on his shoulder. (Summer Lover- Harbor and Home) 

The quiet afternoons I spend humming alongside my grandfather, kneading bread hearing long winding stories about his restaurant days, the sweet smell of yeast and flour. The stereo playing gently from the corner, John prine's raspy voice filling the room.  The apron he wears is covered in the signatures of my aunts, uncles, cousins, and people that are family even if not through blood on his 70th birthday, my messy scrawl in green marker in the upper left corner. The recipe, that he doesn’t need, stained with time and memories on the back of the order card, somebody's dinner order from 50 years ago in blue pen on the front. (John Prine "When I Get to Heaven")

Ragged breath gathers in front of me in translucent clouds, feet pounding on the ground music draining out any distraction so loud I can’t hear myself think. Stick season is upon us the ground blanketed in leaves in varying shades of brown their vibrance drained with the remnants of fall. The dew left behind by the fleeting visitor of this morning's frost leaves its reminders as the ground is slick with wet pine needles and leaves. My feet match the beats of the music in my ears, the lyrics lost on me as I don’t have the concentration to focus on both that and making it up this hill. Colony House - You Know It (Official Video)

 Hazy summer air cut sharply by the sudden but welcomed arrival of rain, pink lights sweep the crowd giving the world a rosy glow. The speaker beside me drowns out any thoughts simply living within the moment, oblivious to the outside world in its entirety. The blond hair hitting my cheek reminds me that I am in fact not alone, yerba mate in one hand, disposable camera in the other she dances without for a moment questioning what other people may think. The scene in front of me has become blurry with the water streaming down my face, but I can still feel the music seeping through my pores, electric in my veins like adrenaline, the beat of my heart matching the drumline. She turns to me, a smile that perfectly illustrates the blissful oblivious happiness that envelops us. (Noah Kahan - Mess)

Clinging on tight, my head mere inches from hitting the ceiling, perched carefully on my cousin's back, laughing maniacally overcome with pure childish joy. My family gathered in my grandparents kitchen, a seemingly impossible amount of food covering every surface precariously balanced on coffee tables and chairs. The football game blaring on the TV quickly forgotten about as old stories emerge from the woodwork, memories rising with the smoke from the woodfire. The remnants of a pictionary game lay abandoned on the table surrounded by empty wine glasses stained rosy pink, rimmed with lipstick and the beginnings of thanksgiving dinner. (Otis Redding - (Sittin' On) The Dock Of The Bay)