Forever it was Crazy Love, the song that Zoey and I sang at bedtime. I'd tickle her back and we'd whisper the words to each other, smooshing our faces together for the part that goes kiss and hug her, kiss and hug her tight. Truth be told, this is still my favorite nigh-night song, though Zoey has moved on. Now she wants to hear Frank every night, so I turn it on, the song that softens her eyes into the faraway nostalgia of a 5 year old girl who still has to ask if 5 minutes is a short time or a long time (and won't settle for my answer that it depends).
Oh, it has not escaped me that the song starts at 17, which was apparently a very good year for small town girls on the village green, then goes to 21 with city girls who lived up the stairs, and then 35 with blue-blooded girls of independent means (my favorite), only to end there, the good years. Because after 35? It's all short days and vintage wine according to ol' blue eyes, the autumn of the years, which does not bode well for my birthday in a few weeks which has me turning twenty-nineteen or twenty-five-fourteen, because, you know, it depends.
Though I was thinking tonight, while singing the song, that it has been a very good year, when I was 38, for pregnant girls and soft children's cheeks, we counted down the weeks, and bought some real estate, when I was 38. (Lacking the soul of Sinatra, yes, but it was a very, very good year.)