I see her most mornings now at the top of the hill. I don’t know how else to say it, but I’m joyfully aware that the same sun bouncing off of my shoulders is warming hers, as she steps gingerly behind her gated yard. And I’m happy for her that she seems more secure in this new season — secure enough to go from house to garage without looking down at her cane. Is it a flower bed she’s tending? I can’t really see. The house door creaks as it opens and I notice that she looks back. I’m happy she’s not alone. The moment passes as I descend the slope. 

The song rings in my ear with each step. Nina Simone sings “The folks who live on the hill.” I wonder if their lives felt as fast as the lyrics, as they “added a thing or two, a wing or two.” Verse jumping into verse. 

Just as it was a jazz standard, it was also, I suppose, a life standard — these folks who lived on the hill. A less complicated, more romantic version of Instagram. But the songs that imagined these lives weren’t intrusive or invasive. I like that. This warmth of not really needing to know the exact details, just imagining the best for them — hoping for it. 

I can tell you that I carried that warmth all day. I could feel it especially walking to my studio — that same romance of my own life. What a glorious and rare thing to see. 

As we jump to the next verse in our own songs, it’s so easy to miss the magic, the beauty. But I don’t want to do that. So I hum along, and climb. I hope for it. For all. Because I am, we are, the folks who live on the hill.