from Golden Rushes:

There is always a guitar at a party and a fellow has taken this one and asked for silence, or at least more silence than there was. He wants some attention and feels he will earn it. He looks around to the few people around him that will pound on some sort of bongos and gives them a nod. The song starts as he starts singing.

“Let’s check it out.”

Zerron leads the way and they walk to the group and sit in front of them.

The fellow is not doing a bad job. He did not write the song and he is not doing as well as the one who did, but he is not doing a bad job. We all have our limitations. He is giving it all he has got.

They push the song to the end and stop. There is no applause—this is not that kind of show—just some comments like nice one and well done. Then the routine goes through again—looking at the others, making sure they are ready for another one. He has aspirations to be in a band. They have aspirations to drink and hit bongos. He sings another.

Live music, cold drinks, a warm, peaceful gathering—the night is as pleasant, in fact more pleasant than can be. Zerron quietly asks if he plays.

“I don’t know…Yes…Yes I can play.”

Another ended and another round of sounds good and I liked that one. The fellow responds in thanks and sets the guitar down for a break to get his breath. He gave it all he had. Zerron asks for the guitar and hands it over.

“Here. I want to hear you.”

“Oh I don’t know…I haven’t played in too long—my fingers have gone soft.”

She smiles. She is already listening.

“All right. Here…I’ll try and make it play.”

He accepts it and clutches the guitar in his hands and looks into it—its neck, its fret board, its body, and into its sound hole. He weighs it, runs his fingers over the wood to feel it, to know it. And spins and clips it on his lap and into place—he has done this before and many times. Then he strums a few chords that sound nice to see how this guitar likes to be touched. Enough stalling. He looks up as if a last warning then closes his eyes…And plays like the musician he is.

The song goes. Music rolls from him naturally, as if his breath were part of the summer air around him. He is in harmony with the flowing leaves, the glowing light above, the squirrels and raccoons and other nearby animals of the night. The night is full and starry. This is his world, his wish.

Zerron is transfixed. The night has been full of surprises but at the same time none at all. When your heart tells you to like someone it is because you will. When you come to see in your own time how beautiful that person is, it is your mind that is surprised and doubts what is happening. But your heart always knew and it told you. Listen to your heart—hear it pounding.

Zerron has listened and heard and is in the world of the musician. Strong, gentle, peaceful—his wish is her wish. And she senses that he does not ask for anything but is ready to receive it all. This is contentment. She feels like a little girl—before she knew about love. This is the world of the musician and now she shares it. At first reluctant to give it, it is here and she is there. Not everyone has ears. He finishes, opens those eyes and absently strums a few more chords.

“So you’re a musician?”

“I don’t know…I was…I don’t know that I am.”

“You are.”

“Well, do you play?”

She does. More surprises, less surprises—depending on who you are listening to. He hands the guitar over and she takes it and fine tunes a couple of strings. She does not say anything, just sort of smiles, sort of exhales. She is ready, is always ready to sing. With a few strums, the song begins…

The song comes like a slow insistent silent train. The chords glide from one to another and she looks at the guitar and likes the sounds it is making. Rolling and rolling, it moves and carries her. The song is developing and her lips part, first to breathe, then to sing…Softly, gently, quietly…She barely squeezes the sound out—like a cardinal whispering its whistle. The music is withdrawn, not played for bongos or applause. The effect is penetrating.

He leans forward to listen more closely, to not see her as she sings, to only hear. Sometimes one voice tells the story of all the emotions of the day. Her voice is thin, fragile—it evokes all wishes as well as the sadness from which they spring. This is not music to smile to. This is music to believe and to believe in. Such is her song.

A few strums fade out and she finishes. She is silent. There is no sound but her smile which speaks to him. He wants to say something to her but he does not know what. He looks at her and looks away and she looks at him and looks away. A lot has been said. He thinks of her song. He could not make out the words, he did not know if it was hers. But she made it hers, without any force, it just was.

The other fellow again takes the guitar and starts to play. They again look at each other and look away. They have already been here. He leans toward her and quietly asks if she wants to go somewhere.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

Next Chapter: The Tune of the Night