The patio at sunset, an island in the Pacific. 2024.

Music has a way of creeping into moments uninvited. Initially, it feels intrusive, unwarranted, like a disruption of what we believe we want. However, our ideals often cloud what we need in the present moment and a song knows our needs more than our wants. Maybe it is the subconscious, the Holy Ghost, our ancestors, or a premonition, but melody understands the unspoken.

A couple of weeks ago, my wife and middle daughter came back from a few days in California attending a baby shower for our sister-in-law. The rest of us stayed back on our island in the Pacific doing life. Time apart can be a struggle, but my wife and I don’t feel it until the other returns. The true absence surfaces, ironically, when we are reunited as if our hearts never fully comprehended what we were missing.

After they settled in, my wife and I found ourselves next to each other on the lanai, or patio, furniture facing the sun hanging low above the Pacific horizon. The sprawling palm branches cut through the glow but not enough to obscure the nightly sunsets we catch. Those sunsets where the fading sunlight catches the clouds and creates a kaleidoscope of colour every minute.

On her trip, she bought a baggy t-shirt at a thrift shop. Being the resident movie/book/music encyclopedia, she had asked me while she was gone if I had heard of Gregory Alan Isakov. I had but couldn’t name or sing a song of his. More than likely, I heard him on one of those indie folk playlists on Apple Music or YouTube at some point.

“He’s pretty good. I like the shirt, but I didn’t want to buy it without knowing who was on it,” she remarked.

Later, she sent me The Stable Song in a text, the version backed by the Colorado Symphony from his pragmatically named album Gregory Alan Isakov with the Colorado Symphony. I gave it a listen as I did the dishes. The melody and rhythm and the atmosphere seemed nice, like a chill song you’d play in the background at a party or on a drive at golden hour. I added it to my library and that’s where it ended.

But then the moment came on the lanai. She leaned into my chest with my arm wrapped across her shoulders. Our bodies nestled together like missing puzzle pieces completing the image. The tinny speakers of my phone played Th Stable Song and, unlike before, the melody did not fade to the background. The strings, Greg’s voice, the buoyant guitar strum all surged like a slow wave into the moment, and it washed over us. Submerged our voices for six minutes and nine seconds.

No words.

No conversations.

Just a moment and the energy between us.

When it ended, the final notes faded, and reality returned along with the words. I lingered at the moment, thinking about it later on and that rare, suspended moment we both existed in. These are moments that can’t be fabricated or forced but require those who are willing to press the brakes on our blistering lives and limitless distractions to just exist, together, for a moment where words do not intrude.

Just listen.

 

Stereo Story 777

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N.T. McQueen is the author of The Blood of Bones, Between Lions and Lambs, The Disciple, and the children's book, Moses Jones and the Case of the Missing Sneaker. He received his MA in Creative Writing from CSU-Sacramento and his work has appeared in issues of Fiction Southeast, The Kentucky Review, The Grief Diaries, Gold Man Review, Camas: Nature of the West, Transition Magazine, West Trade Review, The Sunlight Press, and others.