My music

He sat by the fountain a guitar nestled in his lap. The day was cold
and drizzly, but still he sat hunched over, music pouring out around
him, soft and unsettling. His eyes were always lowered as he
concentrated on perfecting each already flawlessly clear note, but I
could see them peer out occasionally from underneath his messy dark
hair, and they were as black as a starless night in the middle of
winter. A cigarette hung lazily out of the side of his lips and when
people walked by they would wave to him, but he would never play for
them, only for himself. And me. Although he didn't know it, he was my
secret musician and I listened always, from behind the park fence,
where I could be alone with my thoughts, and his music, oh what
music.

He always seemed to be there, it was like he never moved from
that
one spot, at the foot of the fountain, his feet touching the worn
pavement.
Whenever I walked by him every morning and every afternoon he would be
there singing to himself in a voice so revealing that I would run into
the park
dropping to my knees and cry into the grass, my tears streaming through
my
fingers, until I couldn't remember where I was and what I was
doing.

I began humming his music in my head as I walked to work of a morning.
I
would never sing it out loud as I didn't know where to begin, where to
bring
each note from. At night when lying in my bed, I would imagine him
sitting
there playing and singing, and my head would be so full of the music
that
hours would seem like minutes and soon the sun would creep out from
behind my curtains and into my glassy eyes. So transfixed to this music
was I, that one day without warning I opened my mouth and began to
sing.

At first my notes were loud and booming, they burst out from my head as
I
tried to remember each word, the exact pitch. But then I listened and
the melody was wrong. The music I was singing was unfamiliar and
strange, not at all like the bewitching strumming of his guitar, the
aching tone of his voice. The harder I tried to remember his music, the
more indistinguishable was mine. I began to feel dizzy and suddenly I
could not longer hear the music in my head and I was so stunned that I
couldn't even cry. Then I didn't remember the colour of his eyes or the
sound of his voice. I couldn't see his face. Everything was
black.

I didn't go to the fountain that day, or the next. I stayed away for
two
weeks, and each night, I slept a dreamless slumber. My head pulsed and
I convinced myself I was sick, staying in bed with the covers wrapped
around
me locking my thoughts inside.
Winter turned to spring, but leaves didn't return to their trees and
the
air was still icy . I didn't go to the fountain any more. Instead I
took a
longer path around the churchyard, where the only music I heard was the
dull echoing of hymns sung by quivering voices, rough and forced.
Then there came a day which was especially dark and empty. The sky was
almost devoid of life and the rain started to fall more steadily. I
suddenly found myself walking away from the church, through the heavy
rain, and then through the darkness came light, and the dust which had
been blocking my vision for so long was slowly clearing from my eyes
and I was able to hear music again. I knew that I needed to see him,
for I remembered somewhere in my head, long ago, his voice singing a
song soft and gentle. I walked up to the gate in the park fence. He was
sitting as he always did And I kept walking until I was standing right
in front of him, rain dripping from my head. He was playing a song that
he had been playing the first day I saw him, and his voice embraced me
causing pictures of the past to fly through my blocked up mind, and I
closed my eyes tightly learning to love the music again which I had
tried so hard to forget. Then I started to sing, and this time I could
hear each note was perfect. Our voices welded together and without
stopping his singing he raised his eyes from his guitar and looked at
me. We sat there on the fountain steps singing for what seemed like
hours, and when it was dark I left and swore I would be back the next
day. He smiled at me but never said a word. The following morning he
was gone. The clouds disappeared and the sun came out.

He never returned to me, yet I couldn't be sad. I love to look up into
the night's sky, because I always see his eyes dancing in the
moonlight. I have never been able to sing his music again, but a day
doesn't go by when I still don't hear it in my head. I often pass by
the fountain with my children and they go and play in the water. And
whenever I sit upon the stone edge, my feet touching the worn pavement,
I see his eyes smiling at me, and I am happy.