When the Music Died

The third time I saw her, she was on stage at the woman’s bar. Maybe she was standing on the bar, I don’t know. She sure had my attention, along with everyone else’s in the bar. She was playing guitar and singing. She had the room. She commanded attention. She was laying it out, every pain and desire she had ever experienced. Why she didn’t get mobbed, I don’t know. I also don’t know the rest of the evening. I know she was implanted in my mind.

The first time I saw her, she was directing beach traffic from the back of a pick up truck. I was warned to stay away from her, or if in contact, to do whatever she said, so I stayed away. For my efforts, I was thrown into the lake by her significant other, which ruined my hair. Apparently she noticed me too much.

The second time, my significant other and I were invited to her home. She was playing Poker with three others. She got up from the table upon our arrival and planted one on me. Really planted one, and returned to the game without saying a word. I was so shocked I just stood there. At least I didn’t get thrown into the lake again. Was there a bet on my reaction?

Before long others showed up, the guitar came out. I and all the others were again mesmerized. We all shared the Blues and a unity of emotion.

She was from Appalachia during the time of the emergence of country music. Her parents were musicians and her mother started her on guitar. It was during this time that Maybelle Carter implemented a unique style of guitar picking, so she was taught this method. It had such soulful sounds. She visited the Black people who lived on their land, and in the evenings, played their music with them.

She played her guitar and captured my heart.

For professional advancement, I moved out of state, leaving music and my heart behind.

Our attractions proved too great to be separated. She joined me and loved me. Her music came with her.

Around one Thanksgiving, her mother died. She left to tend to affairs, as she was in charge of the estate, and had family with which to contend. Angry family.

She didn’t come home. She returned to where we met, where we fell in love. When I could get off work, I drove at breakneck speed to retrieve her, not knowing what to expect.

I found her in the bar, playing her music, playing out her emotions.

I didn’t know how to describe the change after that. I wondered what I had done wrong, how I had failed her.

What I didn’t realize until much later, was her music had gone. It died along with her mother.

I have her guitar. I only have memories of her music.

Contemplation: What propels your soul?

Let me know how you are doing. I care.

Sincerely,

Lynn Brooke

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Photo Credit: © 2024 Rachel Gareau