Derry picked up her guitar and ran her fingers over the strings, feeling the frets under her fingertips, picking out a melody she'd known most of her life. She didn't have to be down to play the blues; but it helped. The music took the place of tears; it always had.
In her own mind she heard the rest of the band; the bass pulling the rhythm, the harp like a train in the distance, and her on the guitar. It had been years since she'd been on stage, years since they'd played together, but they were always together in her head. In a voice as rough and as nicotined-stained as her fingers, Derry sang the blues.
© 2011 Cynthia Newcomer Daniel
Lampwork beads by Melissa Vess. Bead woven.