He blushed slightly, caught off guard by her bluntness, and chuckled. “Just curious, ma’am. Can’t quite picture my grandma heading to a pop music festival is all.”
“Well,” she said, unwrapping another peppermint, hoping to settle her stomach, “maybe you should ask your grandma if she’s a fan of Jimi Hendrix.”
He grinned. “I think I will—soon as I get off this plane.” There was a brief pause before he asked, “Do you play music?”
“I did,” Eleanor said softly, her eyes drifting to the clouds beyond the window, noting one resembling a rabbit. She loved to look at the clouds and imagine the possibilities of what creatures might float by—a game she’d played with Leanne when her daughter still allowed herself to have an imagination.
Unbidden, her fingers tapped against the armrest, itching as if they could still feel the fingerboard beneath them. She thought back to fairgrounds shows and vaudeville stages, the weight of a guitar strap across her shoulders, the way a song once flowed from her like water.
“Do you still?”
A beat. Then, “I think I do.”
He tilted his head, bemused. “Think?”
For a second, Eleanor faltered. The memories blurred—not lost, but jumbled. But then she saw herself, just yesterday, standing in hercloset, pulling the old Gibson from its hiding place, her fingers brushing the strings. She remembered the way it had come back to her—like muscle memory, like breath.
The girl who played had never really left. She’d just been quiet for a while.
“I do,” she said finally, with more conviction. “I do play.”
“I’m sure you’re wonderful.”
Eleanor smiled at that, surprised by how much she wanted someone—anyone—to hear her. “Would you like to hear me play?”
“Are you performing at the festival?”
She laughed, warm and unguarded. “I doubt they’ve got a spot saved for me.”
“I heard there’s going to be a free stage for anyone who wants to jam,” he said. “You could sign up.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow, amused. “That so?”
He nodded, earnest now. “Absolutely. You should do it.”
She let the thought settle like a stone dropped in water. An open mic. A crowd. A chance.
Why shouldn’t she?
She looked out the window again. The sun was just beginning to dip, casting golden light across the airplane’s wing.
“I just might,” she said.
“Do you have your guitar with you?” the young man asked.
Eleanor tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “How do you know I play guitar?”
He nodded toward her hands. “The pick,” he said. “Dead giveaway.”
She looked down at her fingers, where she held on to her old chestnut-colored guitar pick, with “The Gibson” engraved on one side, worn down from her thumb rubbing across it. She smiled.
“Well, aren’t you observant.”
“Let’s hear it then, ma’am.”
Without hesitation, Eleanor stood, reaching into the overhead storage rack and pulling her guitar case down, careful not to jostle it. A muffled bark erupted from underneath the seat in front of her and inside her half-zipped carry-on bag.
Heads turned in her direction.
