We all love Elvis where I'm from. It's the rule, the obvious. But there's a unique genome in my lineage. I am of the women who find the screaming at the gyrating boy on stage ridiculous, but the boy sitting on the windowsill of Beale street, humming music we all grew up on? He peeks the interest.
We all have our Elvis, the one that is burned in our minds and our heart. Mine is Christmas in Tupelo. The image is brought to life when I drop the needle on the old vinyl I found on a rainy thrift store evening. The air shifts and Tupelo surrounds me.
Simple, tiny, Tupelo, the place most people forget about in this whole story of a handsome boy with a voice and a heart. But in my rendition, Tupelo is king. I understand the way people talk there, and I pray my children will too.
Children. Heirs. I wonder what they'll inherit from me, what I'll see of myself in them. Maybe I will have gained more wisdom by then to guide them through what I struggled through. As I thought about sharing my Elvis with them, all my unique genomes and late night trips to Tupelo for a simple Christmas in my living room, I started a playlist for them.
Years from now, they'll hear it. When they are in my body or when they end up in my arms for the first time. When they stand in the kitchen or run in the living room while I make supper. When they watch the birds fly above as I tend to our garden. When they hear this music, they'll hear the stories too. The babies will know about Christmas in Tupelo because after all, we think genomes are the determinate factor, but I love Elvis how I do because of the gentle hands that taught me.
I love you, Tupelo. I'll think of you in the morning.
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