H is for Blueberry Hill
I try to clear my mind by recalling the warmth of a summer day. I think of the lilac trees in the side yard and remember how fragrantly they will blossom in a few short months. For some odd reason the song “Blueberry Hill” comes to mind, and I hum a few bars of it. I haven’t heard the song for ages, so why now? My thoughts slowly drift back to long-ago days. Days when Donna and I were both so young, still in school and still unsuspecting of the life ahead of us.
“Blueberry Hill” was her favorite song, and she could dance to it like no one else could. I picture her tight jeans wriggling across the gym dance floor to the bump-and-grind sound of Fats Domino and start to relive a night that is now a lifetime ago.
“Wouldn’t you love to go there?” Donna says.
“Go where?” I answer.
Realist that I am, I chuckle. “Blueberry Hill isn’t a real place. It’s just a title somebody made up for this song.”
Donna shrugs. “Believe what you want, but I know it’s real.”
These are good memories . I try to hang on to them, wriggling my toes beneath the mound of bubbles and stretching my mind to recall what my favorite song had been. There is nothing. That memory is gone, and now I can recall only the chugging sound of her suctioning machine.