My Dear Musician

My Dear Musician 

      

I do not regret never writing to her. Never seeking her out, no matter how much I yearned to do so. I honestly believe that it was for the best.

        I am old now, my skin mottled and creased by age, and my flop of hair a distant memory. But my eyes have never taken the milky sheen of someone in their final days of existing. Mine are still a warm, undisturbed shade of the darkest brown, and I know for sure, that she would see them set in my life ravaged face and know me instantly. I have no doubt.

        I have never forgotten the first and only time I laid my eyes on her, so heavily engraved it is into my fading memory. There I was, sitting at the back of the darkened bar. My thoughts had been heavy as lead that night, as they had been every night previous to that, and the only commiseration was the icy pint in front of me, sweating coolly down the sides of the glass. I licked my dry, cracked lips.

       Then she walked on stage. The entire bar silenced. Slowly she walked up to the old microphone, the guitar slung low on her prominent hip bones, knocking against her tunefully with each step. She did not introduce herself. Nor say hello to the audience. But raised her black pick in front of her body for the longest time, like a lethal weapon of music that we must all obey. And obey we did. She had us in the palm of her hand without uttering or playing a single thing. When she did, my God, I was simply not prepared.

         Her slender fingers tamed the strings, they looked buttery soft under her hands, and at once notes poured out and enveloped me beautifully. My heart hammered against my ribs, demanding me to feel the effect her music had upon it. My eyes clouded with moisture from the aching emotion and pain that cushioned her words. I remember the moment she had hit one breathtakingly melancholy note. I honestly forgot how to breath, my breath caught painfully in my chest, but that was okay. I thought that maybe I was finally understanding the broken place she must have been in when she wrote it. She was sharing her pain with me.

           Talent is too meek a word for what she had. But she was not only blessed with that gift, she was beautiful in every possible sense of the word. She wore no make up, her sharp cheekbones and defined jaw dared anyone to question her looks. Her full lips brushed feather light against the microphone.

           She sang. In a pensive, layered voice-

I lay

night and day

In the arms of this gentle melody

It comforts and it soothes me

Teasing my thoughts away to take

The notes that I find somewhere in my mind

I shall scrawl them down come night when I wake.

          I never did forget that verse. Somehow it has played on loop throughout my 70 long years. Its because of her- She brought truth to words on a page. After that first song I was captivated, her spell circling my shoulders again and again with each toss of her wild raven hair. She was stunning, her complicated black jacket and haphazardly ripped jeans adding a strong edge of rebellion to her stand out look. It was well suited to the dangerous but damaged aura that she carried.

          The piece that followed was heavy and demanding, full of anger and passion. She thrashed her guitar, her weapon of choice. So caught up was she in her beautiful display of self, she didn't notice when her fingers caught the strings too roughly and the skin broke. She kept pouring herself onto that stage for us all to see, so raw and breath-taking was her set that no one dared interrupt, as the crimson stained her fingers and clung to the vibrating strings when she finished too soon.

        Then she turned slowly on her booted feet and left, falling again into the oppressing dark of back stage, which would lead her out into the alley and through the dim lit streets. I could have followed. I wanted to. I wished to run to her, catch her hand and demand to know her name and take her for coffee, or wrap her damaged fingers.

       But somehow I had know that was not what she wanted, she wanted to disappear again and then resurface to the world at her leisure, take care of herself. Well, I was quite happy to give her that. I will always have that evening with her. It will be a fixed and untainted memory of her in my unravelling mind.

        And when she too starts to unravel at the seams of her perfection, then I shall also let go. My Dear Musician.    

 

This is my last entry

I hope she would have appreciated it.