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Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket.
Never let it fade away .
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket.
Save it for a rainy day.

– Perry Como –
written by Paul Vance and Lee Pockriss

An old beautiful song. One of those songs you find yourself humming.

When I was in grade school, there was a boy in my grade who had a wonderful singing voice. He was a quiet boy, and good looking, one of the best looking boys in class. I was only seven or eight, too young to have crushes, but even then I knew he was ‘cute’.

We were getting ready for a performance, a concert for our parents, I suppose. All the class was to sing as a group. But this boy, the one with the singing voice, would sing this song by himself.

Our school was Catholic, so our teachers were nuns. And Sister would, very nicely, give the rest of the class an assignment. I think she asked us to draw a picture. It was clear, even to a young kid, that she needed time to help this boy practice. We didn’t mind … drawing pictures is fun enough for a second-grader, and we got to listen to him sing this song, over and over. I don’t remember anything about the performance, just his practicing.

This is where we decide as writers if we want to stick with the sweet tender memory. Or do we want reality? The reality is this boy died when we were both around 18. We weren’t close friends, but when you’re 18, you don’t expect someone you went to school with to die. But he did. I hardly remember anything about him in high school, but what I always remember, every time I hear that song, every time I think of that song, is him singing that song, with his sweet young voice, when we were both children. And me sitting at my desk, drawing a picture.

Bittersweet.

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etikser