I woke up this morning with a harmonica in my purse, in a house I hadn't recognized from the street in the dark. Drunk friends think I either don't have the key, or that I don't know where I'm going. But I am going here: Where mulling spices float and sink in brewing tea no more quickly than the melody of a cello from another room.
I reach into the farthest corners of the cabinets, past pint glasses, and stained coffee mugs, for the tea china. There is a pair of cups, and one without a mate. I serve the pair to my friends on the living room floor. That room put me in secure suspension, as I play my part as an eyes-closed-witness to one of my favorite movements in the symphony of youth (Playing the subtlest snare in the rhythm section, but hey could you call your friend over here?): Falling in Love After Last-Call in an Altered State.
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