“To come back, that’s not really anything,” she told me.
“It’s the never leaving that’s really something.”
Shuffling my big boots through the snow,
I pulled the collar of my plaid coat up to better block the
winter wind.
I squeezed her hand a little tighter.
The bulk of the guitar case strapped to her back was
gathering snow.
“Why’s the snow white, do you ever wonder?” she asked.
But before I could answer, she was telling me things:
that she’s not so sure about God anymore,
that she’s a Virgo,
that her mother fled her family a long time ago.
Frozen street lights twinkled down the sidewalk,
and a pair of white jackrabbits raced zigzag down the slushy street.
I rubbed my thumb along the warm, soft skin on side of her
small hand.
“Writing music is tricky business,” she told me.
“You can’t just go and research what will sell best
because there are too many variables.
“And you can’t simply ask people what they want to hear
because no-one knows what they want to hear until they hear
it.”
There are certain things which don’t need to be improved
upon:
bathroom tissue, nail clippers, hairbrushes.
Toiletries, mostly.
And lazy walks on a winter’s evening with a fellow musician.
I went to tell her this, but she was still talking.
About the history of treble clefs,
about crystals,
about the difference between crows and ravens.
I squeezed her hand just a little tighter,
thinking of never leaving.
