Page 70 of The Comedown

He pauses, redoing the chords he just played.

“Hoped I’d stand a chance,

Not realizing she’d already crushed it between her hands,

Hard plastic molded to capture countless hearts,

She’s done caught mine, my sweet little…”

Julian stops suddenly to whisper to the little girl, “What’s your doll’s name?”

“Ruthie.”

“Ruthie? Does she have a middle name?”

The girl shakes her head, and Julian starts the bridge over.

“Hoped I’d stand a chance,

Not realizing she’d already crushed it between her hands,

Hard plastic molded to capture countless hearts,

She’s done caught mine, my sweet Ruth Ann.”

“There,” he tells her after finishing a complicated strumming pattern. “Ruthie can have my grandma’s name as her middle name. It’s special because she’s the one that raised me.”

She did? When Julian said he pushed his mom away as a teen, I assumed she was the one who raised him, or the very least was around. Was she even around?

The kids clap and Sue catches my eye, reminding me my time today is limited. I’d love nothing more than to stay right here in this moment, watching Julian play the guitar while singing to a little girl about her doll.

“Will you sing, too?” the boy from before asks.

“I’d love to…if Julez joins me.” I know I’m putting him on the spot, but only because I know he can handle it.

“What did you have in mind?” he asks, and I tell him the title. It’s not one of my songs because mine aren’t exactly kid-friendly either, but it’s one I think most people will recognize. It’s got a great message and always makes me think of the kids here whenever I hear it. Originally it was performed by the artist and her young daughter, but today it’s just me, with Julian on guitar.

After a couple failed attempts, Julian finger-plucks the intro riff just right, allowing me to sink effortlessly into the lyrics for “Cover Me In Sunshine” as I weave my way around the room so I’m looking directly into the eyes of each and every child as I sing the meaningful words out loud.

By the time I get to the last line, I’m fighting tears, and I slowly return to Julian. He doesn’t end where the regular version does, instead prolonging the song by repeating the outro riff a second time before finishing flawlessly.

Our eyes find each other when his fingers finally come to a stop, blurring the edges of reality around us.

Sue appears, telling me, “You have time for one more song, if you’d like.”

“Of course.” I swing my gaze from Julian’s to our audience. “This next song I wrote for my son.”

One night after a show during a particularly grueling tour—one I couldn’t take Holter along on—I found myself lying flat on my back in the walk-in shower of my hotel room, staring at the pockmarked ceiling for answers. Answers, like sleep, eluded me that night. Instead, I came up with this song, an emotional melody about wanting to see the person that means everything to you, even if just for one. More. Minute. Because when you’re apart from the person you love most, no amount of time with them feels like enough, so you try to stretch what time you do get together out, for a day, an hour, another tick of the clock.

I wrote the lyrics on one of the hotel-provided, bleach-smelling white towels, my tears soaking the cotton quicker than the marker’s ink, then I kept the towel just like I kept the guilt written into its fabric. Now the words written long ago burn their way up my windpipe before flowing from my lips like molten lava, the pain from it all churning my gut as if I’m still on that terra-cotta-tiled floor. Soon, Holter will be out of the house, off to college or whatever else he might be interested in, and that one extra minute won’t even be an option. I really am failing him right now.

My voice catches on the verse, then I hear the G chord strummed by Julian, and look over to find him with his eyebrows knitted together, now playing the guitar loud enough to cover my mistake. He dips his head, telling me to keep going, and I do. Thinking about this tour and the quality time I have gotten with Holter lately, I pull from that pit in my stomach, gathering the bubbling ache there and channeling it into my vocals until it’s power I’m drawing on, not pain.

When I close out the song, I feel lighter, yet stronger. After a standing ovation that brings more tears to my eyes, Julian and I walk around, giving out as many hugs as we can before Sue is calling us back over to another set of double doors. She immediately points us toward the bathroom, explaining how to wash our hands properly since the children in this next section aren’t able to congregate in the common rooms like the ones we just saw, due to a variety of reasons, anything from lack of energy to recovering from a recent surgery to not wanting to risk exposure to certain germs other patients might be carrying. Luckily, we still get to visit them individually, but only for a small amount of time per child.

It’s the part I always wish I had more time for. It goes so much quicker than you think and some of these kids don’t have much time as it is.

“Thanks for saving me,” I tell Julian once we’re alone in the bathroom, washing our hands in the same sink.