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“What are you listening to?”

Sara, my teenage niece, waltzes into my living room like she owns the place and demonstrates scant interest in my choice of music as she flops in the big leather chair in the corner. I’m sure she’s secretly hoping I’ll turn it off.

String of Pearls.”

“String of what?”

“Pearls, darling … you know, the kind oysters cough up.”

She rolls her big brown eyes and fiddles with her mobile.

“Why would anyone call a song that? And who’s playing anyway?”

“The Glenn Miller Orchestra.”

“Never heard of them. Sounds old.”

I look at Sara with love. My sister’s only child. A law unto herself and now sitting in my living room challenging my taste in music.

“Not so old. 1940s era actually,” I explain. “James Stewart made a rather splendid film about Glenn Miller.”

Yes, indeed he did. Or at least I think so. I haven’t seen it in a while.

“Who’s James Stewart?” the myopic girl asks absently.

“Why only one of the greatest American actors of all time!” I exclaim. “Sweetie, you need to open your eyes. There’s more to life than reality TV and flavoured lip gloss.”

She looks at me somewhat impatiently.

“No, auntie, you need to open your eyes. Stop dwelling in the past. One hundred years from now no one will remember Glenn whats-his-face and his geriatric orchestra. I didn’t even know him now!” She plays with a length of brunette hair that curls over her left shoulder. “Take it from me,” she continues with all the confidence of her innocent age, “the only musician anyone will be remembering in 2114 is … “

“Don’t even say it,” I interrupt playfully. I can’t bear to think of where this is heading. “You need to have this conversation with your BFFs, I think. We will never agree on the longevity of that Canadian mischief maker.”

Sara heaves herself from the deep leather chair and gives me a peck on the cheek.

“All I’m saying is that when you lot are gone your music will die with you.”

“And yours?” I ask with astonishment.

“Our music will live on forever. How can you get any bigger or more unforgettable than …”

“No, don’t say that name,” I mock scream and present my fingers in a cross as if to ward off evil. Sara turns and smiles as she leaves. She loves to push my buttons.

As I watch her lithe figure sashay into the kitchen all I can do is sigh. She’s young. She does not yet understand that not everything we perceive as timeless stands the test of time.

I turn up the volume, in the mood to indulge in more of my big band favourites. It may not be one hundred years since ol’ Glenn recorded these gems, but in my book anyway, he and his music are immortal.

~*~

This is my response to Kellie Elmore’s Free Write Friday challenge.

1477384_696513200380722_443439577_nPure fiction. ;-)

Thanks for visiting …

Dorothy :-)

~*~

©Dorothy Chiotti, Aimwell CreativeWorks 2014