Play Your Memories
I
I’m sitting in this dim-lit room with a knot in my throat and my heart in my stomach. My fingers are gliding over the familiar chords and notes, and I am waiting.
All of the eyes in the room are set on the group before me, whose presence is demanding as any hurricane, as any other group of people that have sweated on that stage before them.
I like it this way, being the one person alone in the back of the crowd, with the voice and the guitar that are never noticed, never given a second thought or a second glance.
“Are you ready?” I look up my from my trembling hands, to the person that had set themselves beside me. I move back, further into the corner, away from the strangers walking through the double doors to watch the people dancing mindlessly to the guitars and drums on the wooden worn stage.
“As ready as I can be, I suppose.” I sigh, and they smile, taking my hand, friendly and comforting.
“Don’t worry; it’ll go amazing, I promise.” The music from the slit between the heavy doors fades, and the singer says something. The person beside me takes quick glances towards the words, then back to me. “Come on, they have one more song, and I want to get some photos of you before you start playing,” he holds up the camera dangling loosely from his neck with a grin and pulls me up from the floor, holding my arm in one hand and the guitar by it’s neck in the other. I merely follow his lead as he walks into the room I’m to play in within the next five minutes.
The dim light from the bay window illuminates the few people sitting cross legged on the carpeted floor, and I make my way to the ragged and worn couch surrounded by the pale violet walls of the window’s alcove.
“Go ahead and sit, the couch won’t bite, you know.” I do as he says, with a small grin slipping through my teeth. My knees touch the crowded wooden table before the couch. I push over the pillows and blankets to opposite sides and wait. The many coloured eyes of the faces sitting in front of me make a nervous feeling bubble up into my throat as I smile haphazardly back at them.
My only friend comes over and pats my hand resting on my bouncing knee.
“You can do this, trust me. Just go ahead and play, just like your Grandpa Jack taught you to.”
I smile at him, and again at the strangers witnessing his soft words, waiting with patient eyes and smiles of their own.
I let my shaky fingers slide across the familiar strings, moving from chord to chord, just as the hands before me had. I keep remembering those hands, hard and worn from war and music: life and love.
The music from the other room finally fades completely, and people, loud and tired and happy, flood the room. My heart speeds up it’s once steady tempo in my birdcage of a chest, and the eyes of the people move closer to make room for the newer strangers to sit and stand. I recognize some of the faces as the ones that were once just on stage as the room fills to the brim, and it’s my turn to steal the spotlight.
I wait for my cue from the familiar face standing at the front of the crowd, wait for his ears to hear the cue from the person behind the double doors, checking time on his watch. I wait for the nod of head, and begin playing the melodies that are so familiar that I barely have to think of what I’m doing as I glide each finger across each string. I play and wait to sing, wait for the cue from my heart to keep going and add the newly learned voice and lyrics, blending them with a tune as old as myself, older.
The first song I ever learned from the owner of those worn hands echoes throughout the room.
As the strangers in front of me clap and shout their approval, the lump in my throat disappears, and my heart takes it place back from my acidic and relaxed stomach beside my gently breathing lungs. I feel every ounce of nervousness fade away with each song my memories guide me through, and with each voice from in front of me joining my own.
The greatest applause signaled my set’s end, and I sighed heavily, smiling and thanking the people sitting and standing in front of me. I place my fingertips against the edge of the table, leaning over the guitar pressing into my frame, smiling to myself with eyes shut tight with the greatest sense of relief and happiness welling in my eyes, heart, and mind.
“You were amazing, love!” I open my eyes and tilt my face to meet the one nearly cracked in half by a grin as bright as the moon. He takes my hands and pulls me up, waiting for me to set the guitar on the couch. He presses my face to his chest, smiling and laughing and swaying our bodies back and forth.
“You know, you never got the chance to get any pictures.” I grin back at him as he nods excitedly and takes his camera from the table.
“Go ahead and stand on the couch, right in the middle,” he places the neck of the guitar in my hand with the bottom resting on the cushions of the couch. “Look down, and put your arms out,” he situates my fingers around the guitar, and my arms to where he wants them. I stare at him in questioning the entire time he moves around my body, grinning up at me with a shine in his eye.
As he steps back to take the picture, I squeeze my eyes shut and pray to my Grandpa Jack, thanking him for everything, and as I stand on that couch, as the shutter of the camera goes off, I swear I can feel his hands over mine against the strings and the shine of his voice as he says “You did amazing, I’m so proud of you, my dear Lacey.”
All of the eyes in the room are set on the group before me, whose presence is demanding as any hurricane, as any other group of people that have sweated on that stage before them.
I like it this way, being the one person alone in the back of the crowd, with the voice and the guitar that are never noticed, never given a second thought or a second glance.
“Are you ready?” I look up my from my trembling hands, to the person that had set themselves beside me. I move back, further into the corner, away from the strangers walking through the double doors to watch the people dancing mindlessly to the guitars and drums on the wooden worn stage.
“As ready as I can be, I suppose.” I sigh, and they smile, taking my hand, friendly and comforting.
“Don’t worry; it’ll go amazing, I promise.” The music from the slit between the heavy doors fades, and the singer says something. The person beside me takes quick glances towards the words, then back to me. “Come on, they have one more song, and I want to get some photos of you before you start playing,” he holds up the camera dangling loosely from his neck with a grin and pulls me up from the floor, holding my arm in one hand and the guitar by it’s neck in the other. I merely follow his lead as he walks into the room I’m to play in within the next five minutes.
The dim light from the bay window illuminates the few people sitting cross legged on the carpeted floor, and I make my way to the ragged and worn couch surrounded by the pale violet walls of the window’s alcove.
“Go ahead and sit, the couch won’t bite, you know.” I do as he says, with a small grin slipping through my teeth. My knees touch the crowded wooden table before the couch. I push over the pillows and blankets to opposite sides and wait. The many coloured eyes of the faces sitting in front of me make a nervous feeling bubble up into my throat as I smile haphazardly back at them.
My only friend comes over and pats my hand resting on my bouncing knee.
“You can do this, trust me. Just go ahead and play, just like your Grandpa Jack taught you to.”
I smile at him, and again at the strangers witnessing his soft words, waiting with patient eyes and smiles of their own.
I let my shaky fingers slide across the familiar strings, moving from chord to chord, just as the hands before me had. I keep remembering those hands, hard and worn from war and music: life and love.
The music from the other room finally fades completely, and people, loud and tired and happy, flood the room. My heart speeds up it’s once steady tempo in my birdcage of a chest, and the eyes of the people move closer to make room for the newer strangers to sit and stand. I recognize some of the faces as the ones that were once just on stage as the room fills to the brim, and it’s my turn to steal the spotlight.
I wait for my cue from the familiar face standing at the front of the crowd, wait for his ears to hear the cue from the person behind the double doors, checking time on his watch. I wait for the nod of head, and begin playing the melodies that are so familiar that I barely have to think of what I’m doing as I glide each finger across each string. I play and wait to sing, wait for the cue from my heart to keep going and add the newly learned voice and lyrics, blending them with a tune as old as myself, older.
The first song I ever learned from the owner of those worn hands echoes throughout the room.
As the strangers in front of me clap and shout their approval, the lump in my throat disappears, and my heart takes it place back from my acidic and relaxed stomach beside my gently breathing lungs. I feel every ounce of nervousness fade away with each song my memories guide me through, and with each voice from in front of me joining my own.
The greatest applause signaled my set’s end, and I sighed heavily, smiling and thanking the people sitting and standing in front of me. I place my fingertips against the edge of the table, leaning over the guitar pressing into my frame, smiling to myself with eyes shut tight with the greatest sense of relief and happiness welling in my eyes, heart, and mind.
“You were amazing, love!” I open my eyes and tilt my face to meet the one nearly cracked in half by a grin as bright as the moon. He takes my hands and pulls me up, waiting for me to set the guitar on the couch. He presses my face to his chest, smiling and laughing and swaying our bodies back and forth.
“You know, you never got the chance to get any pictures.” I grin back at him as he nods excitedly and takes his camera from the table.
“Go ahead and stand on the couch, right in the middle,” he places the neck of the guitar in my hand with the bottom resting on the cushions of the couch. “Look down, and put your arms out,” he situates my fingers around the guitar, and my arms to where he wants them. I stare at him in questioning the entire time he moves around my body, grinning up at me with a shine in his eye.
As he steps back to take the picture, I squeeze my eyes shut and pray to my Grandpa Jack, thanking him for everything, and as I stand on that couch, as the shutter of the camera goes off, I swear I can feel his hands over mine against the strings and the shine of his voice as he says “You did amazing, I’m so proud of you, my dear Lacey.”