He lives above me. Has ever since he was born. He is a smart junior high schooler. Has always made music on my ceiling - running jumping rattling my dishes to his beat and one night, when he was tiny tiny tiny, with his wail of indignation because he was being sent to bed before something really really good was going to happen he didn't know what but he knew it was good. Now he plays bass. And I just laugh with delight when that familiar Led Zeppelin bass walks across my head during evening bill paying or writing this blog.
I, who grew up under a grand piano pounding Liszt and Chopin, live between them.
He lives below me. Has ever since I was younger younger younger 32 years ago. He is an important music critic. And unless they're on vacation, I listen to whatever he listens to through my floor. A recognizable beat during the 1980s when he was writing the history of rock and roll ("He's up to Motown now," said Joni, who lived with me in 1987). Or recently a night silence I really could have done without suddenly I put my ear to the crack on the living room floor, heard something completely new and felt my heart lift.
*thanks to Mukul for his suggestion about this post.
