Benny has a point. Guitars are expensive and I would hate to buy something only for her to want something different in a few months, or even a year.
I nod. “All right, we’ll do the rental program.”
Lily beams, almost as if she’s won a prize. Little does she know there isn’t a single thing I wouldn’t do for her, and that includes letting her follow a musical path. I’d love for her to be anything but a musician, but it’s who she’s destined to be, and I won't be able to stop her. No matter how hard I try.
Thirty minutes later, we leave Rattlesnake Guitars with a rental agreement, a song book, and the Taylor Baby acoustic in a case that Lily carries with both hands.
“You’ll bring this one to your lessons with Benny.”
“I figured. Hey, maybe you could take lessons.”
“I already know how to play,” I remind her.
Lily shrugs as she sets her case in the backseat. “But maybe if you practice more, you’ll find your love again.”
I want to hug her and squeeze her at the same time. I opt for the former and pull her into my arms. “I love you, Lily Bug. And you’re right, maybe I need some time with Benny.”
Darian knows how to play. He could teach you.
The rest of the afternoon passes quickly. We browse the used bookstore on Music Row, where Lily finds a book about female musicians. We stop at the grocery store for ingredients. We drive home with the windows down and country music playing, Lily humming harmonies that sound advanced for someone with no training.
By the time we start cooking, I realize I haven’t thought about work once. My attention isn’t split between competing demands. I’m not wasting energy on problems I can’t solve.
“Can you teach me to make the sauce from scratch?” Lily asks, washing her hands at the kitchen sink.
“Of course.”
We work side by side, browning ground turkey and chopping onions and garlic. I show her how to layer flavors, how to taste and adjust seasoning, how to let the sauce simmer long enough for everything to meld together.
The radio plays softly, a mix of classic country and contemporary songs. When “The Dance” by Garth Brooks comes on, Lily starts swaying while she stirs the sauce.
“Dance with me,” she says, setting down the wooden spoon.
“Right here?”
“Why not?”
She’s right. Why not? I take her hands and we dance around the kitchen island, laughing as we try not to step on each other. Lily spins under my arm, hair flying, completely unselfconscious.
The song ends but we keep dancing, making up our own rhythm to whatever comes next. We laugh until our sides hurt, until we’re both breathless and grinning.
“This is the best day,” Lily says, collapsing against the counter.
“For me too.”
And I mean it. This simple day with my daughter has been better than any work accomplishment or personal milestone I’ve had recently.
We eat dinner at the kitchen table with candles lit. Lily tells me about camp friends and asks about my childhood music experiences. Conversations I should have been having instead of being distracted by chaos.
After dinner, while I load the dishwasher, Lily gets the guitar and sits cross-legged on the living room floor. She opens her song book and starts playing, tongue sticking out in concentration.
The sounds are hesitant but determined. I can already hear her brain working through how finger placement affects tone, how different pressure creates different sounds.
“Mom?” she calls from the living room.
“Yeah?”
“Will you sing something? Something old, from when you used to play?”
