The Meadow Literary and Art Journal 2011

at the end of his sentence which I kept trying to rewrite so it would read neither man held a guitar. No use because memory is ever mindful of its place in the here-and-now. The guitars stayed. Crosby played the way we fall in love for the first time. Do you remember becoming conscious of and falling into it like some beautiful reflection to which you were suddenly beholden? Many times I wanted to hold it in my hands so I could take it someplace quiet to ask it questions— do you discover love, or does it discover you? Another kind of discovery was taking place with the young man and his guitar. A special grief seemed to master the moments he tried to find whatever truth he needed. But a season of small deaths arrived each time he struggled to find the right chord with fingers now changed to crab claws. What is the terminal velocity of the human heart before it signs a truce to love no more? Had I reached my terminal velocity? The PT told me the young man was shot by a sniper in Iraq and learning to play guitar was one way used to help regain motor skills. Penetrating craniocerebral trauma without an exit wound, I thought, and thought, and thought... until the familiar voice was wanting to know what I was thinking, again. Cymbal-clash, trumpet-blare, the lone harmonica playing taps in that moment of terrible things. Always that orchestra plays in the background. I wanted to tell her how that terrifying music sounds when I listen to the many albums that I own. And I wanted to play all my guitars for her. But I won’t. 68 theMeadow

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