John C. Mannone
The black vinyl of an old record caught the eerie sheen of the living room light. Like a lavender wave, light crested the spinning ridges. I heard the pops and hiss as if water spumed on rocks with a rhythm of splashes in sync with the warbled platter dancing on the turntable. It subsumed me. I submerged into music just below the surface. I felt each jazz note wash over me as cool salt surf; my feet working hard against the surge, until I blended with the sea that swept me into my past where I could waltz with you while the minstrels played our song, and Sachmo sang What a Wonderful World. This gift. A world of sound so different from Vietnam, where I can hold you close to me, and dance the past away. Where I no longer need these phantom legs.