Monday, April 6

The purple house opposite mine is still for sale. Two mallards explore its front yard — please be my new neighbors, I think. 

In the afternoon, Nick appears at my back door bearing the most miraculous gift. "Hello sir," he exclaims, then holds out a white Riva flute case. Inside it is a vintage Casio PT-1, a 13" wonder of monophonic 8-bit joy. Like many kids in the '80s, this was my first keyboard.  

I replace its four AA batteries, locate the green demo button among its rainbow array, and press play. Listed in various Casio manuals as "German Folk Song" or sometimes "Unterlanders Heimweh," this jolly little melody is pure nostalgia. A post on the Casio forum traces it back to a German-inspired Japanese children's tune called "Yama No Ongakuka." To me, it simply sounds like Brighton, Michigan, 1985. 

For the first time in almost two weeks, I run my regular route through the city and across the Spring Street bridge. A memorial has sprung up for the 13-year-old boy who drowned in the river below. The last time I was here, emergency vehicles were just arriving to search for him. Colorful bouquets are taped to the cold steel rail along with cards and messages. I pause to read some of them, then look out at a pair of mallards, wondering for a fleeting second if they are the same ones I saw this morning on my street.