He was with me during the sentimental awkwardness of high school when we sang "Old Friends" in jazz choir, when we were too young and not self-reflective enough to appreciate the words until our choir director told us to stop thinking so hard about the harmony (that we were butchering) and listen to the lyrics. He appeared after 9/11, singing "The Boxer" on Saturday Night Live and gave me a lump in my throat. He was there, with Art, to help me through a tumultuous college summer with the help of the entire Bookends album, gently letting me know there was a world to be explored; my own life's poems were yet unwritten. He sang "Still Crazy After All These Years" to me from the other room while I wallowed in heartbreak and bathed in self-care. He accompanied me on a windy trip down Chuckanut Drive in "American Tune," a moment when I had never felt so happy.
This past weekend I was with him, watching him perform from a rain-soaked field, drinking wine and celebrating the life that brought me to that place with hundreds of other people who have their own Paul Simon moments. I'm pretty sure many of them are now finding that "Old Friends" lyric, "...how terribly strange to be seventy..." all too true.
An older man standing next to me took one look at me and said, "You're too young to know these songs!" I said, "Paul's been part of my whole life!" He looked at me, smiled, and gave me a high five.
To sum up how I felt at the end of it all: in love with the soggy world and those people who share in the joy of this music. And thankful to Paul for bringing us all together.
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