Memory

I think that magic exists. I've found it a couple of times, tucked around the corner of seemingly ordinary ideas, thoughts, and circumstances. I've made magic a couple of times...at least I think so.
Last summer in early August, she was a dancer, I was that musician of sorts. We had spent the majority of the evening wrecking havoc of our own sort on the island I call home for the summertime. Food had been ingested, umbrella's stolen, footballs thrown down store corridors, hijacking boats considered and then abandoned for opera house cafe's where out of tune piano's were played. She thought most of it was a riot, but wasn't satisfied with my ability to charm the funky notes into anything magical, so we went elsewhere. I didn't know what the goal was at first, just followed her into the car and to the island cottage. There was more sneaking, a breaking in of sorts, and we were in a dark room. She told me to close my eyes and suddenly that piano was in front of me. I didn't say anything for the next twenty minutes, just played and played and played. Four months without a real instrument will do that to you.
When I finally looked up she was dancing. It was just me and a piano, an empty room, and her dancing. We were separate in our worlds of creativity, but together they blended and wove to make something entirely new. You can call it what you want.