A Concert

I have stood mesmerized while Sinead O’Conner sang a cappella and acoustic at the Paramount.

I have teeny bopped to Brian Adams in the King Dome. 

I have worn ripped pants and an angry face to AC/DC in the Tacoma Dome. 

I have twirled to the Dead at Seattle Center in early summer’s magic twilight. 

I have bounced to Phish, entirely uncomprehending. 

I have sipped Greyhounds at Jazz Alley while Michael Brecker and Diane Reeves lulled and crooned intimately in the soft spotlight. 

I have drunkenly dissolved into the hypnotic rhythm of Ziggy Marley’s Reggae.  

I have screamed with Melissa Etheridge with multitudes of other empowered women of the early 90s. Somebody bring me some water, can’t you see I’m burning inside.

I have held a lighter to the purple night sky and felt closer to God during a Dave Matthews concert at Red Rocks.

I have come down off of Mount of the Holy Cross, washed in the river, and stumbled in to the Aspen Jazz Festival and danced with the moon to Blues Traveler on a frosted blue sky Memorial Day weekend. 

But nothing,

Not one thing compares to the concert of your heart beat through the tinny speaker Dr. Lasich held to my belly that October afternoon.

Swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish

One hundred and forty times a minute.

Swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish

My blood pushing your blood.

My heart pumping your heart.

Like a drum beat and a bass guitar. A perfect pairing.

The most intimate rhythm I’ve ever known.

Our rhythm.