'Moon River' and me

Maybe it was the hues that streak across the sky before sunset.

Maybe it was the music and the memories and the magic of "Moon River."

Maybe it was the beer.

Whatever the case, Henry Mancini's hit popped up on my iPod the other night while I sat on the back porch.

I listened awhile, stared off into the twilight, and darn near teared up.

I thought, too, about Holly Golightly, and awesome Audrey Hepburn, and Truman Capote's triumph. I looked for a copy of the tome tonight at Books-A-Million (oh, excuse me, the store's been given the Orwellian acronym BAM), but it wasn't there. The story is better than the movie and the movie is sublime.

But it sneaked up on me, hit me in the gut when I wasn't looking, caught me unawares. Hasn't happened in awhile.

Who knows why we react the way we do to music or memories or smells or sunsets? I have learned the song remembers when.

But I have no answers for "Moon River" and me.

Maybe I, too, want to eat breakfast at Tiffany's and chase away those mean reds. Oh, dream maker, you heart-breaker...

Maybe it was the beer.