Andrew Taylor-Troutman

The annual physical at the doctor’s office. You’ve been there. You know the drill. How the automatic glass doors open to reveal a receptionist, pleasant but brisk, who pulls you up on the computer. You are a number — first a birthday, then an insurance policy.

The sunlight dappled the trail before me, and the birds rejoiced in song. I was the mind of Thoreau, who said when walking in the woods, “There is so much more air and sunshine in our thoughts.”

I listened to Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” on a CD that my wife burned for me years before we were married, right when we had first started dating. It’s a sad song, but one that still fills me with a certain set of emotions.

I drink coffee every day, but I cannot detect traces of milk chocolate, walnut, or toasted marshmallow in the brew. I am a student, however, of the subtle notes and flavors of Art Chansky’s voice.

Today, I am writing in view of a class of elementary school students, and, while these two dozen kids constitute a relatively small sample, there are four of them wearing mullet haircuts.

The claim is often made that smell is the sense that evokes the most vivid memories, yet nothing takes me back in time like a song.

On this rainy Saturday, all of Orange County had crammed like a mosh pit onto the rink. Yet this kid was untouchable, gliding backwards into a turn before pivoting past a four-child pileup with a grin.

As I’ve grown, my reflection on the new year has become more intertwined with an awareness of passing time. So, I’ve ordered a personalized bobblehead doll.

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