Yes, he remembered the music.
There were gifts in those distorted notes, wrappings and ribbons waiting coyly to unfold then whooping spill out their baubles, twinkling reminders to make an old man smile.
THIS WALTZ BY TIM KENNY 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 02
He coughed—a dry cough that gripped for ugly convulsing seconds. He slumped on the rail. The tumbler escaped his fingers to clatter on the iron grille beneath his feet. Behind him, the cat dropped from the stool and padded into the hall. Beads trailing the division rattled in its passing. A smell of fried chicken fluttered along the alley and up the fire-escape. In the street, horns debated right of way. A kettle whistled in the kitchen below.
The old man rubbed his beard and blinked into the night. Clouds had travelled on and the moon come out to play on the freshly laundered rooftops. A modern city, its silhouette rushing into space, defining the emptiness around. Dawn would lay field and road and rail to bind it to the ground, scattering the illusion of a splendid lunar isolation, of a nomad race bursting from the cold and mountain dark. Morning would come baking and brewing, firing its engines, stacking its hard-day sweats and stinks—those seep-in deep-down stains. Nothing stayed clean. He stooped and collected the tumbler. There were children once, and their children. One more drink, he thought, to sleep untroubled.
The cat stretched out on the rag rug and invited the orange bar of the fire to warm its belly. A jumble of diagrams, blueprints and scribbled equations occupied the narrow spring bed. Somewhere, beyond the mildewed drapes, between the throb of traffic and clubbing beats, a church bell moaned to be heard. Down the hall, music now played.
Ay...ay, ay, ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz
His head swam. The radio's crackle did not irritate; it wasn't a night for clarity and there were gifts in those distorted notes, wrappings and ribbons waiting coyly to unfold then whooping spill out their baubles, twinkling reminders to make an old man smile.