There's this daft little dream that occupies a space inside of me. Of a house with a wrap around porch in a small town on the Pacific Ocean (or any temperate climate zone, really) where everyone knows everyone else's business. The kind of town where when someone dies, their family gets inundated with casseroles. This song speaks to that space inside of me and fills it up for a few minutes.
You wanna be where they still open doors for you
It's not hard for them to remember you at all
They light your cigarette and tell their friends
you used to love them
Where they remember your name
When I hear this, I close my eyes and I can see myself sitting on that wrap around porch, watching the sun go down while I'm drinking a lemonade, Patrick Monahan's voice drifting through the screen door from where the song is playing on the stereo inside the house.
I can see myself dancing and cleaning up the house on a Saturday while Van Morrison's Brown Eyed Girl blasts in the background with me singing along (badly), of course. Slow dancing with my sweetie (whoever he may be) to Tupelo Honey while the sun sets. Have I mentioned I like sunsets? Especially the sun setting into the ocean with just enough clouds to give the sun a canvas on which to paint those beautiful colors.
Every year that goes by, that space inside of me where this dream lives takes up a little more room. Someday...