Tonight is the most magical of the whole year. Not New Year’s. Not Christmas. But the autumn evening when we change the clocks. Yes, it’s annoying to hold down the buttons on the stove, and we never quite remember how to reset the clock in our cars. And, tomorrow, my mom will call to tell me what time it is and what time it really is!
But, I promise you that this night is special – the chance to relive an hour between 1 and 2 A.M. – existing in this liminal space with no external markers. It feels as though anything is possible. And, as the saying goes, I tend to fall back into memory, memory drenched in sweetness.
I remember this night, many moons ago, when I ran around D.C. with a boy. With my hand in his, he led me to Old Ebbitt’s back bar – our favorite – where we drank Old Bay Bloody Mary’s. He encouraged me to shake my hesitation about oysters – to tilt my head back and taste the ocean. That particular night, we befriended a Brazilian couple celebrating their engagement. Elated in love, the two betrothed bought us two strangers a bottle of champagne. Afterwards, we emptied the bar and dizzily walked along the empty streets, sightseeing our city in this magical hour when nothing and everything coexist.
The magic of tonight is its fleetingness. I desperately want to hold onto the crunch of the leaves, even the crisp wind that would feel harsh if not for the warmth of the sun. We hold our breath, not wanting to pivot closer to winter and darkness and unease.
Tonight reminds me of one of my favorite songs – “Moon River.” The lyrics have absolutely nothing to do with fall or daylight savings. But Johnny Mercer did write about his hometown, and the song aches with nostalgia. When I return to my childhood home, I sit down at the Kawai piano, now 33 years old, and pick through my grandfather’s sheet music, searching for “Moon River.” I translate his annotations – marked with different chord progressions from his various gigs. His handwriting, a portal to his life decades ago. As my own fingers clumsily splay across the keys, I wish so much to hear Poppy’s music instead.
Tonight, in this lost hour, I want to give you permission to lose yourself. To recall those moments when you felt free, reckless. To remember when you felt nostalgic, sad. To feel it all. For the magic resides in memory and in champagne and in songs that have nothing to do with autumn.
