I remember begging my mother to play it, again and again. I learned the words and sang along, pirouetting around the room, racing down the sunlit corridors of my childhood. My first favorite song.

We moved out of that house later that same year into a smaller one. Money was tight, and so were the lines around my mother’s eyes and mouth. Her smiles came rarely. Music was never. I asked about her record player one hot summer day. I was bored and looking for something to do. I was tired of scratching mosquito bites, nothing good was playing on TV.

She looked up at me from the book she was reading, her eyes far away as if she was still inside the story. I sold it. Her voice was matter-of-fact, clipped like fresh cut grass. It hurt my ears. And the records? Sold them, too. I asked her in urgent, broken sentences about the song she used to play me, not making any sense, my eyes begging her to understand, to remember. She buried her face in her book again. I don’t remember, why don’t you go outside and play.