Prickle Whoosh

Liza's grandfather passed away in his sleep at approximately 5:30am
on a Tuesday morning. He was discovered with his eyeglasses in one hand
and a James Joyce hardback resting on his chest. A week later his
furniture arrived at her parents' house with very little ceremony. Her
father had always been a realist and he unpacked his father's vintage
paraphernalia with little marked emotion. Despite this she felt as if
she were trespassing on some private ceremony by being there. She went
back to her apartment and was relieved to escape the weight of familial
reverence. And her own sense of guilt for her lack of remorse.

When she returned to the house all the extra furniture had been placed
in amongst the familiar pieces in such a way that she had to scan the
room with intent to pick out the new arrivals. It was in her father's
study that she saw an obvious addition to the room. From a distance it
appeared to be a vintage drinks cabinet: a low rectangular pod of
walnut veneer, supported by short, tapered wooden legs. On closer
inspection the top half of the fa?ade consisted of a large hatch,
spanning the cabinet from end to end. In the center of the hatch was a
small wooden lip that appeared to be a handle. Her fingertips glided
over the veneer with such sensual delight that she was overcome by a
lightness of spirit. At the top right-hand corner of the hatch was a
chrome tag, with the letters G.E.C embossed in a curvy font. When she
tugged on the handle it snapped the hatch towards her with a neat
little click. In place of the musty decanters and tumblers that she was
expecting to see was an old record player and a solid wooden push
button radio. They were separated by a slotting compartment for LPs.
She now saw that the rectangular space beneath the hatch consisted of a
strip of mesh making up the speakers. A couple of records had been left
in the slotting compartment. She carefully slipped one of them out of
its slot and stared at the dusty peeling label. Lionel Hampton &;
His Orchestra, 33&;#8531; RPM. Jazz.

Prickle whoosh. That was what she had called the sound of needle on old
vinyl when she was a child. It also aptly explained the sensation
running up the back of her neck when she heard the sound again. She
felt a happy flip in her belly as the smooth nostalgic rhythms of that
familiar big band vibrated against the old mesh speaker. She smiled. It
was such a natural smile and she realized how much she had missed the
comfort of its spontaneity. Her controlled facial expressions of late
had made her face ache with ingenuity. Now it seemed as though there
was nothing more acceptable than the joy she felt at this moment.

'Liza, Liza, skies are gray, But if you smile on me, all the clouds
will roll away.'

It took her by surprise. The orchestra almost disguised the memory of
those words sung by her grandfather. Her childish legs wrapped around
his waist, one hand in his, one arm wrapped around his neck as he
danced with her six year old self and sung those words in her ear. She
remembered laughing until she felt breathless. It was then, under the
influence of the prickle whoosh, that she started to cry for the loss
of it all.