Picture this: a carefree, probably a little reckless, sixteen-year-old driving down a small-town road toward home. A white Volkswagen Beetle. A blonde, curly-haired girl singing at the top of her lungs to the same song over and over: “Abracadabra.”
How I got my hands on that cassette, I’ll never know. My parents were pretty religious and definitely wouldn’t have approved. But somehow that tape found its way into my little Beetle, and I played it until I probably knew every crackle and hiss by heart.
Back then, I don’t think I paid much attention to what the lyrics actually meant. I just knew I loved them. At the time, those words were pretty provocative, but I didn’t even realize it. What a rebel, eh? Yes, they reached out and grabbed me, and for a few minutes every drive home felt a little more magical.
I’m thankful for this prompt because, as I write this, I’m listening to that song again. It’s amazing how a few familiar notes can take you right back to a version of yourself you haven’t visited in years.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to sing along.