Marching with Grapes

Yesterday evening, the night before Adam's departure for DC. As we walked north toward Market Street Station, the brassy blares of a marching band sounded strangely close by. We followed the noise down to Broad street, and as we neared the small band of musicians, Adam realized that it was no ordinary band.

"Hey, it's a klezmer!"

"What's a klezmer?"

"It's for celebrating purim!"

"What's purim?"

"It's a Jewish holiday!"

"What does it celebrate?"

"I don't know."

With this insight, we joined the eclectic band of musicians-- among them, a tuba player, a trumpet player, an old grizzly-looking man carrying an adorable, wide-eyed hobbit-like child with a head of wild curly blond hair, and a young boy dressed like a giant grape with purple balloons attached to his body. A woman asked the grizzly old man what purim was.

"It's to celebrate the saving of the Jews from the Persian King!" he shouted over the colliding brass notes.

Were they saved by a bunch of oversized grapes? Anything was possible in the Biblical Age. We left the merry band at around 13th street and headed to the metro. It was time to go tango! The guest instructors this time, Adam and Ciko, were really great teachers with an intuitive style of teaching and learning. She was beautiful and sweet and he was charismatic and goofy. He also loved "that's what she said" jokes, so I liked him immediately. He was obviously a fellow "Office" fan.

I don't want to dwell-- this is what I decided, after all. Yet, whenever things like this happen-- a friend moves away, or you move away-- it's another reminder of the passage of time and how it will never return in the same form. As you lie in the present, you can't help looking both forward and backward at the things that used to be and the things that will never be again. That's all the dwelling I will do here.