Music Drabble 2
I spent the summer driving to the hospital, bringing milkshakes to help take the curse off hospital food. He sat in the bed, wracked with fever, with a pile of CDs next to him and his headphones creating a soundtrack for tests and doctors. Through the fall and winter, I brought him soup, watched as he became a skeletal figure, stark white without the contrast of beard stubble or eyebrows. The next fall, I sat in the back of the club, selling CDs. He started to sing, leaning slightly on the microphone stand. I sat in the dark and sobbed.
All of these music drabbles have been killer. I love them. I have another one brewing but am supposed to be teaching or something. Work. Feh.
Jeepers, Ginger. Dayum. Wow. Ouch.
false starts
On our first date, he took me to rehearsal and played horn with Murph. The boy had chops. Emily asked, "Are you here with someone?" I said, "Yes," but did not say the name. He played and I danced angrily, competitively with her, though I did know until then she was my rival. He didn't understand the language, so was surprised when later that night she screamed and cried and tore her hair out and broke her nails off in the soft Tennessee soil. I waited, for a while, but freshmen had curfews, and the surfer dude walked me home.
the concert
I don't remember if he'd gotten special permission or if we'd broken in. Seeger Auditorium was empty, our footsteps echoing off the polished wood floors. Moonlight glinted through emerald and sapphire-hued stained glass. The red velvet curtain, aglow in the stage lights, framed the big black Steinway.
He sat me in the middle of the eighth row, and took the stage. Time stopped, and he played. Magic dripped from his fingers and wound its way through the air to me, his audience of one. And suddenly, I knew the rest of our lives would unfold from that single pure moment.
Welcome to Darkness
Redwoods, bark peeling, soaring into the night sky. Shrubbery, too close together, vaguely threatening. Needles from the evergreen trees laced among the giants form a sharp fragrant carpet.
I'm three minutes from my house, alone, in the park, standing at the edge of the path that separates the busy walkway from this black grove. I'm calling a stray cat I know lives in here. She's not coming.
I take one step forward, and stop. From the darkness ahead comes the piping of a flute. I turn tail.
At home, shaking and sweating, I remember the meaning of the word "panic".
Finally. Music isn't second nature to me. The mathiness gets in the way, sometimes. This is the best I could do, so far. I'm starting to feel like I'm treating this thead like my therapist's couch.
Road Music
Burl Ives on the 8-track, my sister sings along, harmonizing in clear high voice until the whirr of the tires, the rhythm of the fields lulls her to sleep. The singer changes. I hum a few bars, forget myself, belt it out, “…a man of means by no means, king of the road.”
“Just because she sings, don’t think you have to,” mother says.
Twenty years gone, I step up on the stage and hesitate. Those words flash through my mind. I wobble the first note, then find it. My sister’s voice is silent, choice or circumstance, but I sing.
I'm starting to feel like I'm treating this thead like my therapist's couch.
Ahem. Join the club.
That's one of the things writing is for.
