The albums are gone.

[valis2]

I remember sitting next to the speakers in the living room, their dusty fabric covers faded from the sun. I remember kneeling on the wood floor with my ear next to them. I remember the exhilaration of "Bring the Boys Back Home" and I remember lying on the floor crying and listening to "Comfortably Numb." I remember playing "Grover Sings the Blues" over and over again. I remember what the Revolver album looked like. I remember wearing out "Yellow Submarine." I remember the sound of the needle hitting the record. I remember dancing and jumping around so much that the penny fell off the arm and I had to balance it again. I remember the velvet sweep of the record cleaner. I remember listening to the Bankin-Rass "Hobbit" album and knowing every word of the dialogue. I remember "Silver Bells" and grocery store Christmas albums. I remember the unmistakable sound and feel of pulling an album out of its cover, finely grooved and gleaming, and how it was a secret treasure in a paper sleeve. I remember lying on the floor, reading the liner notes. I remember my dad dancing with my mom in the living room. I remember the first time I heard "Nebraska," it loped into our house like a rangy wolf. I remember singing "A Chorus Line" from beginning to end with my sister. I remember listening to "Brer Rabbit." I remember the insanity of opening "The Wall" for the first time and seeing the inner drawings. I remember listening at night to "Pimpf" with only candles lit. I remember singing "There's Wolves in the Kitchen" and dancing about so enthusiastically that the record skipped.

The guy who picked them all up is a collector, and very, very nice. They will be treasured and catalogued.

I feel sad and happy all at once.