You winked at me! And you were not a winker, but it was a winky moment and you captured it, which is just so . . . friendly. I try not to forget that wink because it was the opposite of so many looks you gave me over the years: drawn-and-quartered looks, tarred-and-feathered looks, beastly brains pouring out of your eye sockets. But I dunno, you were full of yourself, sitting at that piano in Ann Arbor, overflowing. So you winked at the only girl around: me. Barely a girl at all, just a road hog—hog child who crashed on your floor sometimes cuz my man and me always needed a safe house, a place to hide, and nobody but you and Tina would take us in and take care of us. But that wink meant it’s all a joke, so fuck it.
Of course, you were not The Singer. You deserve no credit or blame for what happened whenever you found yourself tuned in and turned on. But nobody does what you did; nobody can. You invented it and it died with you.
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