29/365 Monday, Monday

I was probably 9 years old when I found out about the Mamas and the Papas. Whether this memory was my first exposure, it’s hard to say. It was among the earliest. And who knows if I’ve got the details right?

My parents’ dear friends, whom we lived four hours away from, had a daughter just my age. Our moms had been pregnant together, and the two of us adored one another, even though we only got to see each other a few times a year. Leyla.

Leyla was the later-baby. Her sister was 15 years older, her brother 10 years. Her sister was already married and pregnant.

It’s her brother that’s a part of this memory, though—her brother Erol and his girlfriend Laura. They would get married and have a couple of kids together. They would get divorced.

When we were 9, Leyla’s father died suddenly, at work. He was young: forty-six, I think. Our family went up for the funeral, and I believe we actually stayed with Leyla’s family, in their house. I remember spending time there with Erol—could it really be on the occasion of their father’s death?—and he and Laura played records for us. One of these was the Mamas and the Papas. I remember dark, quiet evenings, and the Mamas and the Papas up in Leyla’s bedroom—us kids with Erol.

Erol died a couple of years ago, just like his father—suddenly, at work. He was about fifty. I didn’t ever really know him. But he was the guy who introduced me to Denny, Cass, John, and Michelle.

Oh Monday morning, Monday morning couldn’t guarantee
That Monday evening you would still be here with me.