They say time fades everything — the faces, the voices, the love songs that once played through a half-open window on a summer night. But somehow, Perry Como’s “And I Love You So” refuses to disappear.

Released in 1973, the song wasn’t just another ballad. It was a quiet rebellion against the noise of the modern world. In a decade ruled by loud guitars and restless hearts, Como sang softly — as if whispering to someone he had already lost. His voice carried that unexplainable calm that only comes from a man who had learned the weight of silence.

The song was written by Don McLean, a man who knew loneliness like an old friend. But when Perry sang it, something changed. The loneliness turned into gratitude — not for what he had, but for what he once held. It’s the kind of song that doesn’t cry out; it lingers. It sits beside you when the room is quiet and your thoughts grow too loud.

There’s a story some fans tell — about a night in 1973 when Como finished recording the song and sat in the studio long after everyone left. They say he didn’t move for minutes. Just stared at the microphone, like it still held someone’s voice other than his own. Maybe that’s what love does: it echoes, even after the person is gone.

“The book of life is brief… and once a page is read, all but love is dead.”

Perhaps that’s why people still listen, half a century later. Not to remember someone — but to remember how it feels to love, and still be thankful for it.

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