The Swallow’s Song

As Kings of Convenience’s latest album plays over the café’s stereo, I’m reminded of a small concert I performed at a few years ago. It was a last hurrah before the leaves began to fall and an evening outside wouldn’t be as enjoyable. The snow outside and the hot coffee give me a certain nostalgic isolation; I can recall even the tiniest of details of that particular evening.

The sweet September breeze carried the scent of hot mulled wine and warm fruit-filled pastries, and a somber feeling as the city knew this would be one of the last warm nights of the year. The decorative incandescent lights shined brighter than the stars, contrasting against the clear dark-blue sky of the twilight hour that promised a Parisian night. I could feel the cold on the guitar strings, the chill resonating through my fingers, as I tried to entertain the audience with introductions and small talk.

And there she was, with her hair curled, her lips a fierce red, and the colorful jacket she only wore to special occasions. She made my knees quiver and made me a virgin of the stage again. I wasn’t there to perform for the crowd, I was there to perform for the girl that had her own spotlight in the audience. She hated attention, but I couldn’t help but stare at her as I sang. Her chin laid in her palm with her elbow on the table, as she took tiny sips of her wine. As I sang Rule My World, I wished I could be the mug pressed against her gentle lips.

After the pleasantries exchanged with the audience and my friends who had come to see me, I made a beeline for her. “Great performance you,” she said, “but my parents are calling now so I’ve gotta run.”

“I’ll walk you home and I’ll run back here before they notice I’m gone.” And so, we did, with our fingers interlocked in my jacket pocket and her head on my shoulder. We took our time, taking in the late-Summer air and the warmly lit streets, talking about things that don’t matter much now.

“Come here,” she said as she pulled me into an alley behind one of the bars next to her place. The beers had taken their effect on me, made me more malleable, and the dark of the alley had put us both under a spell. “I’ve been waiting for too long to try this,” she whispered with a devious grin as she pushed me against the brick wall. I got my wish — I became the mug. Her hair, smooth and light, ran through my fingers like angel dust; she stood on her toes as I’d pulled her closer, and I could taste the sweet cinnamon and orange zest from her soft lips as she bit gently on mine.

We must have stayed for much too long. We only realized when eventually a pair of gentle misses came walking through the alley. She pressed her head to my chest to hide her face. We both giggled like children being caught in an act. “Probably best to head in before my parents call again.”

“Agreed.”

As the snow reminds me of the gaiety of summer, I’m pressed to ponder on the wisdom that this state of nostalgia grants me. It’s moments like this that stay in a person’s mind to remind them of the joys of life. Some say that they regret a person because the love grew to resentment. But in that regret, they also let go of the precious — the smell of fresh pastries, the feeling of the sweet September breeze, the incandescent lights, the taste of cinnamon, and the sound of the soft giggles. They let go of that which gives life beauty and wonder.