“Try to describe to me how music makes you feel.” A question from my kindergarten teacher. “I love music a lot. I think kissing will make me feel the way I feel when I hear my favorite music.” She chuckled. I didn’t understand her laugh. I was being so serious. Music caught my breath in my chest. I thought about every Disney kiss I had ever watched on VHS. I thought about Almonzo Wilder kissing Laura Ingalls in my paperback book from the Bookmobile. Why was this comical to her?
I only kissed two guys before Dave. I wanted to kiss a few dozen more from middle school to college, but I was never brave enough to initiate a kiss. The guys I liked never chose me for that moment you read in hundreds of books. When he takes your hands, your eyes lock, you look away slightly embarrassed, and your lips touch that very first time. And it feels like music.
When Dave and I were friends, he mentioned that he wouldn’t kiss again unless he knew he loved her and wanted to kiss only her for the rest of his life. Several months later, I wasn’t expecting to be kissed. I was surprised and elated when he asked if he could kiss me. My hands in his hands. We looked into one another’s eyes. Then I looked down, remembering his words. This was more than a first kiss. This was a declaration. Our lips met and it was the most incredible feeling. I remembered thinking, “This is my last first kiss.” And that feeling in my chest was the same feeling I had the first time I heard U2’s Heartland.
Most people have songs that move them. I have those in spades. But I also have albums. Entire albums that give me that feeling so far into my chest, I think it must burn me up completely.
I doubt mine do the same for others. We are all so different. But these albums are mine, from start to finish. And that feeling of kissing your spouse for the first time floods me.
That first kiss, and all the dating and engagement kisses that follow, are nothing like married kisses. Two categories that rarely overlap. Those first kisses leave you wanting what you don’t even know. When evenings end with kissing and can’t go any further. For me, music is like those kisses, because I can’t ever get enough. I want to feel more from that song. Dance more. Cry more.
But married kisses almost always lead to that act that transcends the music. Where the lyrics can’t fulfill, those married nights together are everything you imagined as a college girl holding his hand at an amusement park.
Last year, Dave bought Coldplay’s Ghost Stories for me. I listened to it on repeat all the way to Kansas City and back. I was on 71 thinking about our first kiss. He had that album ready for me, along with coffee, and a goodbye kiss. I was taking the girls to the hospital and he had a meeting he couldn’t miss. His goodbye kiss wasn’t his normal goodbye kiss. It said, “Please be careful. I love you. I want to be leaving with you right now. Please, please, please be careful.” And that album was in my chest for 7 hours. It became one of mine.
Here are a few of my albums. They are part of the soundtrack for my life. I equate them with heartburn and happy/sad/mad tears and being incandescently in love, to steal Lizzie’s words. I want to dance and laugh and kiss my husband and travel all over the world and spoon on our couch while children sleep and travel back to 2003 for our first kiss. And sing. Always singing.
Photo credit: amazon & wikipedia