Music Of The

It was the era of “Our Song.”

It was the music of the night on a frigid February Friday night, as I watched two very young people swirl in rhythm.

It was a brief moment in time when handsome dark eyed crooners sang of mocking birds, apple blossoms and azure skies.

As we gently swayed on the magic carpet of recorded music, each of us claimed a song of our own to pair with our partner.

Often friendships and romances would wither early on the vine, but the nostalgic lyrics remained with the young couple after both had moved on in life.

So it was with “I Apologize,” and the first night I heard the haunting melody.

I was 15, a young wallflower at a weekly church dance. When the music from the juke box filled the room, I watched enviously as the older dancers suddenly left the floor.

It was Danny and Edna’s “Song,” and while the soothing sounds filled the room, the dance floor belonged solely to them.

The beautiful young couple were a bit older than I and far more ready for romance.

I had watched them from the sidelines each Friday evening as we gathered together to dance, laugh, and stay out of trouble on the sidewalks of Hells Kitchen under the watchful eyes of Father Richard Farley, our Paulist Father chaperone and mentor

Danny was a neighborhood hero, soon to don a U.S.Navy uniform. Edna was our local version of Queen Guinevere, of King Arthur lore. That memorable evening Dan wore a red shirt that appeared emblazoned with virility. As they slowly circled the small dance floor. Edna nestled comfortably in his arms wearing a crisp pale blue voile shirtwaist.

They were the neighborhood’s Romeo and Juliet that St. Valentine’s night, and I fell a bit in love with both of them as well as, “their song.”

Within the next five years the Friday night dances had become merely a memory. Dan returned from the sea eager to dance with other heroines, but Edna probably didn’t notice. She was far too excited about the solitaire another young warrior had recently put on her third finger left hand.

I never wondered if they had another“song.”

It no longer mattered, because whenever I heard “I Apologize,” invariably I returned to the evening I watched Edna and Dan circle the dance floor.

It wasn’t very long afterwards when I met my own love. However, he and I were different. We never had “A Song.”

Last night as I sat alone so very far from Hells Kitchen, watching television, I listened to a newer interpretation of “I Apologize.”

The cadence brought back memories, not of the night I watched two very young people dance but instead of the one I loved and who loved me.

He and I never had “A Song,” but we were blessed with magical music all the days God gave us to share.