After tucking the children in for the evening, I walk into the bedroom, shed my workday skin, and slide into bed. Knees propped, I read a book or write in a journal on my makeshift human easel. I keep the door open, allowing me to hear a CD playing in one of the children’s rooms. It’s usually James Taylor’s October Road or his Best Of album spilling sweet sentiment into all of the bedrooms. The dog stretches out at the end of the bed as we begin the nightly ritual I have come to love.
Most nights, we alternate between Taylor, Kenny Loggins, or a classical selection. Any of them suffice in lulling us toward a peaceful state, reminding me that melancholy is good. And if there’s one thing we Mangans love, it’s ritual.
We welcome the new day with song, too, choosing a piece in the car to escort us to our day’s destination. The morning tunes are more eclectic and upbeat—everything from Rascal Flatts to Coldplay—creating a marvelous melodic bookend to each day. Years from now, when the kids hear a familiar song, I hope it elicits tender thoughts of our daily serenades.
Music matters. It shapes the personal patterns of our lives. Van Morrison’s Avalon Sunset accompanied Mike and me when we were dating. John Coltrane solidified our relationship with his classic “My One and Only Love,” also the first song to which we danced as a married couple. The kids’ lyrical choices yield their parents’ influences. Griffin is a Beatles man because his father is a Beatles man, so pizza night usually includes the Revolver album. Gillian loves Diana Krall and tells me I sing just like her. God bless her. We even have our special songs together. “How Deep is the Ocean” belongs to Gillian. Chet Baker’s “Time after Time” is lovingly claimed by Griffin.
I get it honestly. My father loved the music of the 1940s and passed this on to his youngest daughter who, at 40 years of age, still harbors a fantasy of being a torch singer with a big band. When I moved into my first apartment, Dad gave me a perfect housewarming gift: a homemade cassette tape of his favorite singers—the Mills Brothers, Glen Miller, Margaret Whiting, and, of course, Old Blue Eyes. He narrated in between the tunes, adding commentary worthy of any music critic.
Many years later, on a somber New Year’s Eve after my father’s funeral, Mike and the kids threw a spontaneous lip syncing party to digital music on TV in hopes of adding some much needed levity to a very sad day. I had to laugh when my husband sang Styx’s “Mr. Roboto,” stiff arms and all. It felt good to smile. Later that evening, after everyone else had fallen asleep, I went downstairs and found Dad’s tape. It was scratchy and worn, except for Frank Sinatra’s “In The Wee Small Hours,” which was hauntingly clear and beautiful. It was one of Dad’s favorites. The New Year arrived with Dad, Frank, and me in the family room with the lights off.
Tonight, a handwritten letter is placed beside my pillow. It reads: “Dear Mama, I love you and wanted to give you a treat. Please press song #16 on your CD player. Love, Griffin.” It’s the Beatles’ ‘I Will’ from their White Album.” What a treat indeed. Such dreams really are made of this.
Who knows how long I’ve loved you?
You know I love you still,
Will I wait a lonely lifetime?
If you want me to, I will.
