He was a musical soul, there was no doubt about that. Almost as long as I’d known him he’d been mesmerized by a single guitar strum, a note of the piano, or the low, human hum of a voice. It was of no surprise to me when he ran to me one evening, guitar in tow, and told me to listen. I did listen, oh did I listen, when he played.

The notes were sweet and gentle, the kind that invoke both the solemn, cold waterfall of buried memories and the native, delightful need to move. They claimed a warm breeze and whispered through the air; they wrapped me with their warmth. The fireflies rose from the grass, enchanted. Amber summer evenings were alive in that music, and time itself wished to slow for it.

I swayed along, caught up in my reveries, and the music as it drifted into the night as a gypsy into the wilderness. It was so soothing, so breathtaking… When I found myself back in the moment, he was still playing, barely glancing at the chords, his mind roaming anywhere from here to a million miles away. He looked up with bright blue eyes that found total enjoyment in this escape, as I did. My opinion was asked and given. I loved it… I do….

When winter won over the landscape and the warm summer sun was hidden away by gauzy clouds, he turned to the piano. In the parlor, just in front of the curtained windows, was housed the grand, old piano. The keys were worn away, but still he played, just as he had charmed the summer days. The music aroused the soul, twisted through the flames of the fireplace, gave voice to the raw winter days.

Parties of the holiday season were such happy occasions. For the thing was, if he loved to tickle the ivories, his audience, whether it was a grand assembly or merely the creaking timbers of the house, always loved it more when he did. Guests would flock to the room to hear him play; they’d clap along, singing and dancing grandly.

He would often play for me, throwing his golden head back to laugh while his hands still danced along the keys. I would laugh back, my soft voice hidden under the music. He’d motion for me to take the place on the bench next to him: a closer view of the magic machines that produced such a sound. He offered to teach me on occasion, and I, a being entirely without such talent, would only laugh and politely turn him down. I loved to listen, though.

The music was part of him; no doubt can be expressed about that. He was in the music, his soul slipping through the harmonious tunes, echoing in the rests, skipping along the strains. And the music was in him. It would shine in the blue of his eye, steal into the tone of his voice, wake him in the middle of the night to write or play. He’d grasp my hand and pull me to the piano to hear. And I’d laugh and clap and sing along.

Those music-filled days and nights were beautiful. In those days, the worries melted away. In those days, he was himself through and through. And in those days, I was me, happily the companion of the music maker.