The phone rings. It’s Riley.
“Hey, can I come over? I have a new album with your song on it.”
“I have a song?” I ask, smiling. He always chooses a song that’s mine from every album.
“Yeah, it’s your song.”
“Sure. Come over.”
Later he comes in with his distinctive walk and his smile and his dancing eyes, so very Riley-ish, looking like he has something up his sleeve.
He takes out the record and hands me the album cover. I stare at the photo of someone I don’t know: “Elton John.”
Riley gently lowers the arm to play the first song, and midway into it, I laugh. He’s right. It is “your song.”
We listened to the whole album more than once, and I loved it so much that when he left, he told me it wasn’t just my song. It was my album.
It’s drowned now. I have it on CD of course, and no flood water can wash away the memory of the boy I planned to still be hanging out with sixty years on.
I miss you each day, Riley. You can tell everybody that’s your song.
And I cry every time I watch this.
ETA 2022: I’m not sure which video I linked to, but it’s no longer a good link. Since probably everyone knows “Your Song,” I’ve chosen to try again using “Sixty Years On.”