It’s feels like forever since I last spoke to Sam. It’s hard to focus or think about anything else except hearing his voice again. When I get home, I play the CD I always keep on hand, and pretend he’s there in my room, practicing his guitar. I’ve been doing this every day, letting his music fill my room like he’s alive again. It makes me feel less alone. There are fourteen songs, and I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve replayed them. The third track is my favorite. It’s one of his originals, a rock ballad, reminiscent of the Nicks era of Fleetwood Mac, and I get to hear Sam’s voice humming the melody. There are no words because the song is unfinished. Sam had asked me to help write the lyrics with him. We used to pretend we could be this great songwriting duo someday. Like Carole King and Gerry Goffin. I once asked him what comes first, the lyrics or the melody, and Sam answered, “Always the melody.” I disagreed with this, but I think that’s why our relationship worked. We were two parts of a song. He was the music. And I was the words.
I lay on the floor of in his room, looking at the ceiling, notebook paper scattered everywhere. Sam sits cross-legged beside me, his guitar in his lap.
“Play that again…” I say.
Sam strums his guitar, filling the room with the melody.
I close my eyes and listen.
The guitar stops. “What are you doing?”
“Shh—I’m trying to get inspired,” I say, keeping my eyes shut.
“Sleeping inspires you?”
“I’m not sleeping … I’m thinking!”
“Got it—” Sam continues playing as images dance across my mind. Infinite blue skies, a couple holding hands, cherry blossoms falling from the window. I sit up and jot some of these things down.
I look at Sam. “What should the story be about?”
“What do you mean? We’re writing a song.”
“Every song tells a story, Sam.”
He scratches his head. “I just thought it had to rhyme.”
“Songs do more than that,” I say. “They’re supposed to make you feel something. So what’s the emotion we’re going for? What’s this about?”
Sam thinks about this. “Love, I guess?”
“That’s too vague, Sam.”
“Aren’t most songs, though?”
“Not the good ones!”
Sam falls over on the carpet, groaning. “Can’t you just come up with it? You’re the writer. You’re better at this! That’s why I asked for help.”
I went through my drawers the other day and found my notebook. Inside were a couple verses I had written months ago. After our call on the porch, I spent the rest of the night working on the song again.
Sam and I have another call soon. I want to write as much as I can to surprise him. Especially after our conversation about unfinished things and leaving a mark on the world—maybe this could be it. He’s done so much for me, after all. This is my gift back to him. I’m a little anxious when he picks up. When I tell Sam about the song, he asks me to share the lyrics. At one point, I play the track so he can get a sense of how it would sound with music …
“Don’t judge my voice, okay?”
Sam laughs. “Of course not.”
As the CD fills the room with his guitar, strumming a soft ballad, I sing some of it for him, the best I can.
“I see your face, there in the stars …
When I close my eyes, you’re not too far
Do you feel my hand? It’s tied up in yours
I’m keeping you with me, wherever we are …
And I still remember, it’s sealed in gold
The fields that we run through, I’ll never let go
So don’t you forget me, those memories we hold
Like water and time
We are written in stone…”
I shut off the music and sit back on the floor. “That’s all I have so far. I know—I don’t have the best voice in the world. It’ll sound better when you sing it.”
“No, it was great!” Sam says. “I can’t believe you wrote that. It’s beautiful, Julie.”
“Are you just saying that?” I ask. “You can tell me the truth. I won’t be mad.”
“It’s better than anything I could’ve written,” he says.
“Of course. But that’s not what I’m asking.”
Sam laughs and says, “I really mean it. It’s perfect. The lyrics … they’re so—what’s the word I’m looking for? Meaningful. Like there’s something more behind it, you know?”
“Anything that needs work? I’m looking for feedback here.”
Sam thinks about it. “It might be missing something. Maybe a pre-hook.”
I jot down a note on some paper.
Look up the meaning of pre-hook.
“It’s only a first draft,” I tell him, reading the lyrics over again. “I’m gonna make some changes. But I think we have a hit here, Sam.”
“If only that could be true,” he says wistfully.
“Why can’t it be?” I whisper.