I was listening to Prince’s “Purple Rain” album, something I’ve done since it blared from a boombox during an after school basketball game in the 17th century. (I cut the back of my hand that day; you can still see the scar if you squint.)
I don’t know all the lyrics, but my brain has pre-built grooves. For stretches of time, Prince’s words were my only thoughts.
Then the title song built from melancholy beginnings to a crescendo that threatened to go off the rails but never did.
That’s when the kettle on the stove whistled its boiling tune. Prince, the kettle, and I were in complete alignment for a hot millisecond.
