Finding the Pure Note

Fancied Dreams and Bitter Longings

Nine Years Ago

He laughs, his joy so precious and fragile, that if broken, would scatter like crystal fragments. We cross creeks, because we can, jeans pulled up, legs claimed by water, squelching through the mud that sought to swallow us up; branches as jagged as lightning bolts wielded like swords, lending way to more than bruises, red tears now marking us like warpaint. Tender moments too: piggyback rides that became violent, legs wobbling under the pressure; sneaking into the neighbour's yard when we thought they weren't home and swaying, thrown like a slingshot on the trampoline, gravity bringing us down, down to the screams of surprise and the pitted feelings now in our stomachs. We just laughed, me entranced, enticed, ecstatic, wanting to lose myself to his sing-song glee. We were discovered, again when Fletcher bashed his lip against the metal rod, blood trickling over a mouth as swollen and protruding as a duck's beak—we had no choice but to ask for help. Fletcher did his best to remain strong; I would have been lost to tears from the start.

We know we have to get him help, and as much as he tries to protest, I drag him to my house, knowing mum can fix this. Mums are the best fixers of things. He tries to laugh it off, but he's my friend, and he's hurt. Sometimes the best thing you can do for a friend is to be there in the smallest of ways. Even the simplest of gestures can carry a long way.

I find mum with dad, in his study. He should be writing or something, but instead, he's playing, his fingers commanding melodies that would make the bards weep. Fletcher and I freeze in place, the music taking us on a journey over winding mountain paths and ancient temples. His fingers glide off towards the end, and mum throws her arms around him, planting a big kiss on his lips. I grimace but remember I've got a bleeding friend here and I cough, halting the kiss. At once, mum spots the problem and rolls her eyes before laughing as she pushes an eager dad away. Leading Fletcher away, his hand slips from mine—when did I grab it, and why do I hate having to let go?—and mum is left to worry over his swollen lip. I'm left with dad. I find my eyes moving up and down, to the guitar and to him, to the guitar and... A grin teases its way onto his face and he gestures me forward.

"Come on, I'll teach you a few chords."

It's so tempting, and I know I should, but I shake my head—out of what? Anxiety? Hesitance? An awareness of what it would mean? I can't say. I just shake my head and bite at my thumb.

"I can't," I finally say, turning to leave.

"You love singing. Come on, imagine singing with a guitar on your lap, like Bruce Springsteen, John Mellencamp, Van Morrison or Neil Y—"

'"Dad," I interject, frowning at him. "These names mean nothing to me."

"They should," he says, still sporting a grin. "Soon enough, I know you'll be just like them. But you've gotta start somewhere, right?" He nods for me to come over and I remain where I am, feet planted firmly on the ground. He nods again, holding the guitar out, and this time I can't resist. I glance over my shoulder, and I can hear mum fussing over Fletcher in the kitchen. I run to dad's lap and jump on, not caring that he lets out an exaggerated grunt. He passes me the guitar and wraps his arms around me, still gripping the guitar firmly, though a little awkwardly. 

"Dad?" I ask, furrowing my brow up at him. "Why do you never play the guitar? I never knew you were that good."

He seems to consider the question, before sighing."What do you think I do?"

I shrug. "Boring dad stuff. Office crap."

He shudders. "True. But I didn't start there. Your old man, he was a dream chaser back in his day. I followed the big names in rock, played my heart out and lived like a hippie. I was a hippie, or a nomad anyway. I needed to follow the music. That's where my life was heading, I knew it. I felt it. I was sure I was gonna be the next Jimi Hendrix. When you're young, young and stupid, you convince yourself you're god. Untouchable. There are no limits.