It was wooden with a worn, red finish, the bellows bright blue. There were no ivory keys, just shining brass buttons. The sound carried a hundred thousand yesterdays in two minute installments. Carnival bright one moment, hauntingly sad the next. Standards from a hundred years before.
I remember a night when I looked into the framed blackness of the window while I listened. And I knew the music would end.
The accordion player told me a dream where his long-dead childhood sweetheart waved a handkerchief to him from a second story window, then another dream where he walked into church, down the center aisle, and sat next to his father. I was Joseph and he was Pharaoh, but Pharaoh already knew. He was 95 and I was 24.
My loss is no different from your loss. Bridges disappear and there is only the river, with currents and eddies too wild for one to swim and ever return.
At dusk, sometimes, wisps of music carry from the other side.
Here is some of his music. You may no doubt find it Myron Floren kitsch, but for me it is tinged with fond memories. I don’t know the name of the first one anymore, and am hoping someone might recognize it.
And I’ve just discovered Tumblr only allows one audio upload a day. Grrr. More to come.