Image: Author

Lyrically, Speaking

I was grateful for a quiet Sunday, cell phone shut off, and the only intrusion into my day being a child, before school age, caring less whom he bothered, wearing a yellow sunhat and sunglasses with yellow rims, who asked what I was reading.

I lowered my music score, uninspiring, as it was, and asked the child’s name. On his third attempt, I understood him to be saying, Sebastian. I thought about my Daniel at his age, and on Sebastian’s leaving felt the child left behind more pleasure than my company might have deserved.

Before lunch, Jenny returned from a shopping expedition in Kona. The woman is one of the sweetest, funniest, kindest and most talented people I’ve ever known as a friend and wife.

Could anybody ever ask for a better working environment than being with someone who loves you on an island edged in a white surf, embroidering a blue sea?
I was more musically inclined than a wordsmith when younger, a vast amount of music that helped flesh out my flights of fancy. Even then, I like to think the best tracks stood on their own; each album had a concept, a premise that always included a beginning, middle, and end. Lyrically, for me anyway, there had to be a story to carry the album.

I’ve never written that down before. Such a simple sentence never put into words, merely thoughts, now helping to bring the album back in my memory.

I wasn’t afraid of anything back then. Being young does that. When you’re young there are only beaches, no battlefields.

I dreamt of gypsies, caravans, a dog called Reckless, beach fires, guitars, and wondering what would happen if I ever ran out of strangers?

Some of those dreams came true. But, too often, I opened my eyes inside strange hotels, memory clouded, head still thick after too much drink, quickly running out of tomorrows.

One day I woke up sure, understanding that deadlines are nothing more than the ingredients of stress. Such a day happened for me somewhere between the first paycheck and good fortune. 
Perhaps there is a slight ache, but it is somewhere so far inside of me that it remains undiagnosed and will go unattended. Tonight, I will do nothing but love the present. 
 But if it should come . . .