And at the top of page forty-seven, centered, underlined three times:
And for one evening, sitting on a worn-out couch with my uncle, listening to the rain and the ghost of a hundred songs—I understood why they had to. top hundred songs of the 90s
I closed the lime-green binder. Outside, the world was gray and wet. But in my lap, the 1990s were still arguing, still dancing, still discovering that “What Is Love” was funny and “Torn” was heartbreaking and that a hundred songs could never hold a decade. And at the top of page forty-seven, centered,
I was twelve when the 90s ended. Old enough to remember the last gasps of grunge on MTV, young enough that my strongest musical memory was the Digimon theme song. Rick, on the other hand, had been seventeen in 1990. He’d lived it: flannel from Goodwill, Doc Martens held together with safety pins, a mixtape collection that required its own shelving unit. But in my lap, the 1990s were still
Then, the top five. The ink was heavier here, pressed down with conviction.
“So,” I said. “Did you ever make a 2000s list?”