Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

My brother bought the records. Dad had the record-player. I wandered round the house trying not to be seen while I danced to the beat, feather duster in hand (I was helping Mum), and imagining… the handsome man, the music and the dream… “Who?” asked Mum. “Beatles.” “Beetles. Bugs. Junebugs.”

Silent, dark, moody, sad; life colored by anger unseen… The mother looked down at her sleeping child, fair hair on pillow of green—grass-shaded for life. How she wished he would rise. In the dark of night, the boy ran away, her son dressed all in black. The mother feared for him; feared someone might run him over unseen; feared after he phoned that she might hit someone else in her hurry to find him. Then he found music, an old guitar, un-played since the mother’s own gloomy silence and dark. Now he’s writing songs and playing in the band.

Endless possibilities were music to his ears—boundless vistas of mountain and valley, hopes and fears that spread the future before him. If he opened his eyes, lights would flash; crowds would roar; but the music was more. Let the clouds take his troubles. Let the songs of his wounded heart pour over his tears. He shrugged off friends; their comfort was too kind and too unreal. But the concert lifted his spirits and set him free. The beat revived. The vistas awoke. He survived. He did open his eyes. Endless possibilities were the song that soared in his soul.