November 21, 1963

November 21, 1963 He took the harmonica from the bib pocket of his overalls blew thru left to right, low to high back and forth a couple times, slapped it on his palm like he’d tamp his cigarette, one of those unfiltered Camels on his dulled dented Zippo. He blew a quick riff up the scale, inhaled it back down, spun his harmonica around slapped it a couple more times, stopped as if thinking about what he’d play then smile that smile he’d smile while looking at her, start in on The Tennessee Waltz watching her stand up, close her eyes, hug herself and sway. As he played he moved to her side wrapping his left arm around her waist, she draped both arms on his shoulders and they glided around the living room in a world of their own viewed by us six kids, all of us grinning and smirking and making kissy faces watching mom and dad, mom singing the words motioning us all up to dance that night we stayed up late that night before president Kennedy was killed.