December 6, 2022

Memoir in e-minor

Angelique Woodruff

To bake a cupcake is Lana Del Ray dipping her hands into the bowl and stirring vigorously. The flour drifts in the air, her crooning cracks eggs alongside you. Each swoon, each fade is so many drops of vanilla.  Like late night shifts with the same soundtrack, accompanied by the drone of a refrigerated display case. Your mop is dancing circles around your feet, Ed Sheeran is buttery sweet while his notes hug you from behind, they sway and entice. You ought to turn them down and lock up. It's getting late, it's been hours….

You press repeat. He takes your hand; you hum along.

And perhaps they're repetitive, but it's more tolerable than goldfish and nilla wafers. They sounded like your ABC's and the jungle book, they have a staccato to their crunch too much like kidsbop and wheels on the bus. On occasion, they will soften to the dulcet tones of a sticky mouth pressing kisses to your cheek, of eager little hands reaching for another crayon when they've already got six. 

Mostly, though, these thoughts are monkeys jumping on the bed. A cacophony of squeaks and screeches and smiles that reach in and rock slowly, gathered up in your arms. The tune blends nicely with a lively jazz quartet, your first legal drink and a triumphant burn in the back of your throat. It’s in the background while growing pains croak, while first loves are a young Taylor Swift on the car radio, and her lyrics are scrawled on a notebook with initials you hope will be yours. 

And the hurt will sometimes be heavy metal smearing and crashing and clanging; the ache of disappointment sounds eerily similar to a broken blues singer. But a hand in yours will always ring true, and the glow from a full heart will be thousands of voices over, stomping feet and screaming crowds for the one on stage who usually keeps to themselves and Spotify.

This memoir, in E-minor. It’ll be a song all your own.