She dared to smile,slicing through the shrouded darkness with a sliver of light. “Don’t be afraidto write your songs. Whatever they are, whatever you need to say, write themfor her—write them for you.”
Don’tbe afraid to write your songs.
After saying good nightto Tess, I checked on the girls, peering inside their room to make sure theywere still sleeping, and to make sure they were okay. I couldn’t help butsmile, as I swept my eyes over the room. For a second, I marveled in the waythat sleep transported them back to the time when they were babies. Even Lilly,at close to seven years old, was a pudgy-cheeked infant, untouched by tragedy.
Don’tbe afraid to write your songs.
My face fell with theecho of those words, careening through my mind a second time since Tess hadgone, and I left my daughters’ room to find the solace of my own.
Closing the door behindme, I began my nightly ritual of saying hello to my wife, stroking over thetwo-dimensional curve of her cheek. I shed my pants and folded them neatly overa hanger, kept dangling from the edge of the dresser mirror. My shirt was next,and I hung it from the doorknob.
“My kingdom for acloset,” I muttered, cursing another downfall to this apartment.
In my boxer briefs, Iopened a dresser drawer and grabbed for a t-shirt. Before I could pull it on, Istopped, taking in the sight of my reflection in the mirror. The dark-brownhair that I usually kept a little shorter, just curling over the tops of myears, now appeared unkempt and unruly. It was longer than it’d ever been, and Icouldn’t remember the last time I had gone for a trim. My face, my jawline, washidden behind months of growth. Shaving had become something I only did if Ithought about it, whenever I had a spare moment to stare at myself long enoughand decide tojust get it over with.Dark circles shadowed my eyes, muscles I had once obtained were now soft, andmy stomach protruded further than I remembered.
It’sfrom all that beer. I laid my hands over my gut and shook myhead. I never drank to excess—heck, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d evenbeen close to drunk. College, maybe? But those beers every night were takingtheir toll, and it also wasn’t helping that I had stopped running … when? Howlong had it been since I even took the girls for a walk?
This man in the mirror… he surprised me, and I stared at him with a wide-eyed shame. I had no ideathat I’d completely let myself go.Allof me. Not just my passion to write songs, but simple self-maintenance had beenentirely forgotten and left on the backburner. I couldn’t even pinpointwhen. How does that happen? How doestime go completely unaccounted for, even while we’re living it?
ButI haven’t been living.
My eyes dropped to thepicture of Beth, looking at me fromitsspot on thedresser, and I shook my head. “You would’ve been on my case about this a longtime ago,” I told her. “I mean, look at this gut, babe. How did this evenhappen without me noticing?”
I was answered withsilence, so I nodded to my reflection. “I need to do something about this. Ilook like garbage. No wonder people are always asking how I am. I’d ask me,too.”
Don’tbe afraid to write your songs.
The words belonged toTess, but the voice in my head was Beth’s. I hung my head over my heart,because Iwasafraid. Afraid of whatkind of lyrics I’d produce now. Afraid of the emotions that I’d be forced tofeel, now that my muse was dead and gone. Afraid of acknowledging that happylove songs were a thing of the past, and the future was for songs of brokenhearts and sadness.
But despite my fear,despite my shaking hands and reluctant legs, I turned from the dresser as Ipulled my t-shirt on, and walked to mynight stand. Iopened the drawer, pulling out my notebook and pen, both untouched for toolong, and I sat on the bed.
I opened the notebookto the first page, to the first song, quickly scanning the scribbled wordsabout breakfast in bed, of all things. I had never put music to this song andnever revisited it, because it was written the day she left, so I flipped tothe next page.
It was empty.
God,how cruelly fitting, I thought, with a shake of my head. It wasthe most simplified depiction of my own life. A beginning of love and happinessto … what? Blank emptiness to now be filled with the bleeding of a brokenheart?
Don’tbe afraid to write your songs, babe.
Pushing a hand into mydisheveled hair, I pulled in a breath until my lungs ached and I was forced torelease it. “I don’t want to do this, Beth,” I spoke on my exhale, my voicechoked and strained.
But although Iprotested, I put my pen to the blank page.
And I bled.
***
The headache woke me before the alarmclock had a chance. I groaned, laying a hand over my forehead. My nose and throatwere clotted with the remnants of the night’s writing session, and I could onlyimagine what my face looked like. Red-ringed eyes. Puffy lids. Dry, crackedlips.
Yet, while I knew Iprobably resembled something like a zombie, I felt somehow refreshed.
I rolled out of bed,walked past the dresser and mirror, and left my room when Shelly nearly raninto me.
“Whoa there, SpeedRacer,” I muttered through a dry mouth, as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
“Ineedapee!” she squealed, running into the bathroom and dropping her pants rightthere with the door wide open.
“Well, okay then.” Inodded with a shrug and turned my attention toward the kitchen.
