She was a song I had heard long ago, one to which I remembered the tune, but not the words. A hazy recollection of sharp afternoon sunlight slanting across the stage where she sat cross-legged, body wrapped around an acoustic guitar. Fingers strumming the strings, gaze directed inward. We the audience might have been watching her, but she attended to the music the way she did everything: fiercely. She had a way of carving out space for herself, not waiting for permission, demanding the right to exist freely. Sometimes, when I felt hollow and uncertain myself, I hummed that tune and the notes would tether me to reality again. I think that song must have been a spell and she a bard, imparting a bit of her magic to her listeners.
S. G. Baker 1 Minute
Published by S. G. Baker
S.G. Baker is a writer and editor of fiction. She has authored short-stories in With Words We Weave: Hope and Road Kill: Texas Horror by Texas Writers, Vol. 2. Read more → View all posts by S. G. Baker