Midsummer Waltz
The moon is full, the stars bright. A sweet melody mingles with the warm summer breeze. I stand still for but a moment, listening.
From the crowd, I see his face, and I smile.
His fingers move skillfully, affectionately plucking the strings of his guitar. Beside him is another guitarist, and on the other side a drummer. A large man with broad shoulders stands on a corner, patiently awaiting his turn, his shiny saxophone on hand.
Amidst the countless faces of strangers that surround them, he looks at me, gently, softly, with his travel-weary eyes, and for a split second he is young again. And so am I.
Wonderful fields of gold, and his eyes bright with youthful vigor flash before me. I remember the swooshing of my skirts, the smell of roasting nuts and the ringing of his laughter as he guided me round and round the dance floor. In that same heartbeat, I remember his smile so dizzying, his love, intoxicating. But most of all, I remember his music. Ah, yes. His beautiful, captivating music.
The band plays on, with the saxophone now telling his sad tale. He looks at me still, with his tired, tender eyes. With his guitar strings, he touches my heart and caresses my soul. He did it then, he does it now.
My eyes begin to water, and I blink back the tears.
And all of a sudden, he is gone. His old, seasoned brown face is instantly replaced with that of a younger, paler one, as though he was never even there.
But his music continues. And his eyes remain. They watch me still, so full of emotions. So full of love.
I feel no surprise. Only sorrow. Sorrow, mixed with pride. And love. So much love.
The song draws to a close, and the crowd cheers. The young bard steps away from his band, his guitar in one hand, and walks towards me. I could bear it no longer. Tears run down my cheeks, and a small sob escapes my throat.
He wraps his arms around me just as I feel my knees grow weak. I collapse against him, a pathetic mess of a woman, bawling and sniveling like a child.
"For you," I hear him whisper in my ear, his free hand lightly stroking my hair. "Only for you. That song is always only for you, mom."
I nod weakly, unable to speak. But words are not needed. My son, my beloved son with his father's eyes and his father's hands, and his father's music – he understands. He knows, and he understands.
I hastily wipe my nose and cheeks, and pull away. I shake my head with a silent self-admonish and upon gathering the tiny shards of dignity left of me, I nod and wave my son away.
He kisses me lightly on my damp cheeks and squeezes my shoulder. He disappears into the crowd, unfamiliar faces swallowing his slender frame, its endless drone of low voices replacing his guitar's pleasant tune.
With the music gone, I could not help but remember a different time — the harder times. Times when tempers flared, and stomachs growled. Times when coughs replaced songs. Times when my husband's music began to falter, until it stopped altogether.
I close my eyes and sigh, with a reproach once again sounding in my head.
We held on, didn't we, my darling? Through thick and thin. We held on.
After a moment, I decide to walk home.
Away from the festivities of midsummer, I hear nothing but the quiet of my heart. I gaze up at the heavens, a look of contentment on my wrinkled face, and I say to myself, softly, "I am happy."
The moon is full, the stars bright. Slowly, quietly, like an old friend creeping by my side, a sweet melody mingles with the warm summer breeze. I stand still for but a moment, listening.
From the shadows, I see his face, and I smile.
Midsummer Waltz
by Soleil