Mrs. S cued the music; the syrupy guitar chords oozed into the afternoon warmth.
“I bet no one knows who this is.” She said with a crooked, boastful grin.
I remembered the feel of Persian rug fibers on my cheek, my mom propped up on her elbow as she sat at the dining room table. Her eyelids hovered drowsily as we basked in the Winter sun and listened to the song.
“It’s John Denver.”
Mrs. S looked at me in surprise, her mouth momentarily hanging open. She recovered her bravado. “Okay. What’s it called?”
She had me there.