Page 38 of Rock Me

I never come here.

The only family I have visiting is Paige, and it's probably better to contain her within the four walls of my own private room.

I choose a chair against the wall that looks out into the rest of the room and the window. There's something comforting about seeing all the empty chairs and tables, neatly set up, awaiting the break of day to welcome the loved ones. I smile benevolently out at them, seemingly calm in this environment. Away from the confines of my bed, but still safe within the walls of this hospital, with not another soul to bother me. To hear me.

Just me and my ukulele.

“Autumn Leaves,” I say softly, “Les Feuilles Mortes.”

I don't know why he wrote that. But it's been burrowing into my brain since I saw those two words on the page.

The burrowing of an earworm that just won't rest for the night.

I untuck the ukulele from under my arm and rest it on my thigh, the neck firmly clasped in my hand.

I've never played the song before.

But that's never stopped me.

Here goes.

I sing the tune in my head first, just the first few notes, to get into the right mind frame. It rarely takes more than that. Then I hum it quietly out loud.

And then I play.

One note. At a time. Slowly.

One clear note, held for just a split second too long, as I enjoy the reverberation of each pluck of my uke's strings, closing my eyes, almost imagining the notes traveling like waves out into the empty room. Ripples of sound.

"Da, Da, Da, Daaaaa." I hum quietly along. So quiet I only know I'm humming by the tickling in the back of my throat.

The song is so enchanting. Simple. Melancholic.

I reach the chorus, and while almost every memory I have of the song has it increasing in tempo, it seems such a travesty to break the somberness of the melody. My fingers disobey the norm, and each note is plucked, singularly. Slowly. Meaningfully. Deliberately. Each individual reverberation living a complete life of its own before the next one fades into the world and then out again, at its own pace.

What a masterpiece, I think to myself as I play.

What a privilege to live in a world where this song exists.

And before I realize it, I whisper a thank you.

Thank you, mystery man.

For the song.