'Tell me a story,' her eyes, locked on mine, said.
There are words so evocative that they are spoken with awe and accompanied by a roll of the tongue so slow and so delicate that the onrush of feeling overwhelms the definition. Part of it is aural; some words sound like they mean without being close to onomatopoeic. Melancholy sounds like watching rain slide down a rattling pane of glass; ardor does as well, just reversed - standing in the garden, cold and wet and wanting so desperately to be warm. Gratuity sounds slimy; gratitude, less so.
Words on a page mixed with memory create emotion much more profound than the memory itself; it's the conjuring that sets the tempo, picks the partner and clears the dance floor. It plays your favorite song and invites you to dance as slowly as you want for as long as you're able. It makes you dizzy and tired and begs you for one more waltz before you head to the bar, laughing, looking around the room for your next partner.
If words are a baseball bat, they're a Louisville Slugger.