But today, as I fit the pieces together and bring the flute to my lips, I’m not thinking about any of that.
I’m thinking aboutMarley.
“Ready?” Ro asks, her fingers positioned on the guitar strings.
“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it.
We start with Bach, “Sonata in E Minor,” because these folks appreciate the classics. But Ro adds her rock edge, electric guitar weaving through the melody in a way that makes something centuries old feel brand new. My flute sings, notes pure and clear, and I pour everything I’m feeling into the music—every fear, every hope, every bit of anxiety about tomorrow night and what it might mean.
The first piece ends to thunderous applause and enthusiastic whoops from Queenie, who’s never been subtle aboutanythingin her life.
“That was lovely, dears,” Mrs. Henderson calls out. “Could you play that Vivaldi piece? The one with the seasons?”
““Spring?”” I ask, and she nods eagerly.
We launch into “Spring” from “The Four Seasons,” and I watch the room transform. Mrs. Applebaum has tears streaming down her face. Mr. Morrison is swaying in his chair, eyes closed. Harold is tapping his foot, conducting an invisible orchestra with his hands.
This is why we come here.
Not for publicity, not for appearances, but for this, bringing joy to people who’ve been forgotten by almost everyone else.
We play for twenty minutes straight, taking requests and switching between classical and slightly more contemporary pieces. Ro makes inappropriate jokes between songs that have the residents cackling. Ghost’s dry commentary from the corneradds to the ambiance. Bear’s low chuckle rumbles through the room when Ethel makes another pass at Deek.
And then something happens. I’m in the middle of Pachelbel’s “Canon in D,” a piece I’ve played a thousand times, but today it feels different. The notes come from somewhere deeper, somewhere that’s been locked away for too long. I’m not playing for the residents, not really.
I’m playing forher.
For Marley, who makes me want to be brave enough to be whole instead of fragmented. Who looks at parts of me, the biker, the musician, and doesn’t flinch. Who fits into my world like she was always meant to be there.
When I finish, there’s a beat of silence before the applause starts.
But Ethel, sweet, observant Ethel, is watching me with knowing eyes. She’s been around long enough to recognize what she’s seeing.
“You’re playing for someone, aren’t you, dear?” she asks, her voice carrying across the room despite its softness.
Everyone goes quiet. Even Deek stops his usual antics. All eyes are on me, and I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with standing at the front of the room.
“Yeah,” I admit, because there’s no point in lying. Not here. Not to these people who have known me for years. “Yeah, I am.”
Queenie’s smile is so bright it could rival the sun. She knows. Of course, she knows, I just told her everything.
“Well, she’s a lucky woman,” Mrs. Henderson says decisively. “Any girl who inspires music like that.”
“Or he’s the lucky one,” Mrs. Applebaum adds. “Takes a special woman to reach a man’s heart like that.”
“I’m going with both,” Ro interjects, setting her guitar aside. “They’re both lucky. Now, who wants to dance?”
She doesn’t have to ask twice. Bear moves to the old radio in the corner, fiddling with the dials until swing music fills the room. Glenn Miller, if I’m not mistaken. The big band sound is precisely right for this crowd, and suddenly the brothers are in motion.
Ghost, toothpick mysteriously absent, extends his hand to a woman who has to be ninety if she’s a day. She takes it with the grace of someone who remembers when dancing like this was the height of sophistication, and they move across the floor in a waltz that’s surprisingly elegant considering Ghost’s usual stoic demeanor.
Deek, of course, is teaching a group of ladies some kind of line dance. They’re laughing so hard they can barely keep up, but that’s the point. He’s not trying to be perfect but trying to give them joy.
Koa is deep in conversation with several male residents, probably about motorcycles, Hawaii, or both. His hands move animatedly as he explains something, and the men are hanging on every word.
Bear asks Mrs. Applebaum to dance, his massive frame moving with surprising gentleness as he guides her through the steps. She barely comes up to his chest, but she’s beaming as if she’s at the ball of the century.
Ro grabs the eldest gentleman in the room, Mr. Patterson, who’s got to be pushing ninety-five, and dances with him in a way that’s probably giving his pacemaker a workout. But he’s grinning ear to ear, so no one’s stopping her.
