The record she remembered so well was scratched.
She was too young to know the left speaker was blown.
She didn’t know, back then, the names of the instruments that made the sounds.
Amelia only knew that when those songs played in the morning it meant her dad was taking her for a motorcycle ride.
The voice, it wasn’t perfect, and only some of the lyrics made sense to her, even as an adult.
If Amelia sang the song for you now, she could even hiccup in the scratch and the skip during the second verse.
Amelia wasn’t much to sing, though sometimes she quietly sang along to Oh Canada at hockey games. Other people sang too, and that made her more comfortable.
She never rode another motorcycle after her dad stopped riding.
Amelia wasn’t much to talk, really, though she always said hello to the neighbors.
She was almost retired when her doctor told her to walk more, and shortly thereafter she found out Lamont Carruthers grave was near her house.
She hadn’t known his name when he sang her out of bed, only that her father loved his songs.
So Amelia bought a flower at the grocery store, then turned back and walked up Puritan toward the cemetery.
She would put the flower on the grave, she thought, and thank Mr. Carruthers for those mornings with her dad.
As she turned up Schaefer, she saw people ahead. She didn’t recognize them but planned to say hello.
The movements the people made suggested they were arguing, and she was certain that was true before the violent words reached her ears.
It was a man and a woman.
The words were terrible.
Amelia considered crossing the street, out of her way, when the man pushed the woman and she fell.
He stomped off, not fleeing, just leaving, his feet landing as though he wished to break squares of concrete.
The woman stood and walked a few paces before leaning against a fire hydrant.
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