I like classical music. Some of the well-known Mozart pieces wear very well in my brain. So, looking over the choices for a ringtone for my dumbphone, I grabbed at the chance to have Wolfy's Eine Kleine Nachtmuisk (A Little Night Music) sound off whenever I get a call. But I got a slightly more modern phone the other day and found the memorable tune of Voi che sapete (You know what), Mozart's aria in "The Marriage of Figaro" where a young man, just experiencing the first delights and pangs of being in love, asks some of the women around him whether the mysterious and oddly delightful malady he suffers from is really love, about which he has heard but not felt before. All this telephony has put that character, Cherubino, in mind, along with the subject of young love and older love.
I remember burning with love and desire. After a year of dating the hotty I currently live with, I thought I might have a heart attack as the train pulled out of the station bearing her away from me for a whole, entire, endless, agonizing summer. I think of that moment of very great pain as I brew coffee in the morning. Brewing just the right strength coffee and carrying the carafe and a mug into the lady while she is still abed is a great pleasure. I have much less need to tear off her clothes now but much greater and deeper delight feeding her, brewing the coffee, mixing the evening drinks, sharing our fortunes and memories. I think it is surprising how much less genital and fleshy love is at 71 than it was at 21. Love now involves thinking and doing far more than the feeling and longing it did then. We didn't consciously plan any of the change. It just quietly grew from one state to another.
