Crush.

Yesterday, I took down the Christmas tree. It's part of my annual post-holiday cleansing ritual performed each year on New Year's Day. I usually kick everyone out of the house, turn up the volume on the Bose stereo, and clean. Classic Rock being my genre of choice, I sing and dance along with the songs to which I use to "shake 'em down". Of course, home alone I don't have to stop and think about my dignity - to borrow a phrase from Bob - so I get down with my bad self as I dust and pack and sweep.

The first four notes play of a certain song. I stop and I am instantly enthralled. David Gilmour's guitar sings to me as no other musician's can. I close my eyes and let the notes embrace me, caress my skin as soft and tender as a long, lost lover finally returning to me through time and distance. I recall as a teen I would lie on my bed in my adolescent bedroom as the music would cover me like a warm, soft blanket. I would slowly dance my fingers through the delicate web of smoke that rose from the end of a stick of incense - the room dark except for the flame of a candle and the faint glow of a streetlight filtering through the curtain... the melodic strands of David's guitar and Roger's lyrics inducing me to a dream-like state. The scents of the incense and candle - my favorites of patchouli and blueberry - would commingle creating a sweet, natural high as David looked down from my ceiling. His smoldering eyes were so teasingly sexy to my teenage self, I could barely look away.

Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
You were caught on the crossfire of childhood and stardom,
blown on the steel breeze.
Come on you target for faraway laughter,
come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!


The song ends, the spell is broken, I return to the present. Pedro returns from his assigned errands, I turn the volume down and resume cleaning. He doesn't recall the song when asked. Pedro was never a Floyd fan, so I let it drop.

After Pedro has gone to bed and the house is quiet, I sit still tense from the day's events. I go downstairs and dig through my old CDs. I'm pretty sure my oldest daughter owns a CD of Pink Floyd's greatest hits - did she take it with her when she moved? Ah, here it is. I run back upstairs and place the disc into the player. I turn off the lamps and light a nearby candle. I plug in my earphones and lie down on the couch.

You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Threatened by shadows at night, and exposed in the light.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Well, you wore out your welcome with random precision,
rode on the steel breeze.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions,
come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!

I remember my crush and smile as the music washes over me like a warm blanket of Valium. I become comfortably numb.