music criticism runs in my family

in the rented van, driving aimee's stuff to her new place
(in a house with friends over by the college;
when one of the roommates moved out, the others lobbied
with the one who holds the lease to have her move in)
when benny goodman's "sing, sing, sing" comes on the radio.

"wow," she says, "that's _such_ a rock'n'roll record."

it's true: with gene krupa (the proximate model for keith moon
in both propulsive percussion technique and substance abuse patterns)
on drums, the tune winds its way from climax to climax,
each solo setting up another one, a real '70s move
recorded around the time chuck berry was born.

she moved out once before, after high school, saying she wanted
"the experience of paying for shit" before college.
six months later she was back: "i'm tired of working all the time
at a job i hate so i can afford to live in a place i don't like."
"come home," i said. and she did.

this time feels more permanent, and i feel kinda divided
between not wanting to let go and feeling proud of the person
she's become, who thinks things through and doesn't make rash decisions
the way i did when i was 20. before i go, i tell her,
"this is a good place, i think" and she answers with a big smile.

i think she's going to be fine.