Today is a birthday. Probably a stadium of people can claim that their life burst open on this date as well but I am speaking of a slender sliver of music. 

 

I timidly joined a songwriting challenge, which is absurd because I have not composed a tune since we moved from California. Still there seemed to be nothing to lose except street cred with a dozen other aspiring lyricists who may or may not tap their creativity this week either. 

 

The truth is that there were fragments of the chorus lost somewhere in the back pantry of my memory. You know, like the can of pumpkin from two Thanksgivings ago. You aren't sure if it has passed the expiration date but neither are you quite ready to make a pie for no reason when what you want is cobbler. Which I have every intention of baking today. Even though my two daughters have rolled out the door with gifts crammed into the corners of their suitcases I can celebrate other things. 

 

Like a new song.

 

I played it on zoom for my siblings and when I set down the guitar I could not figure out what the drum beat was. Could my sisters hear it too? Then I noticed that the neck of my instrument had landed on the keyboard and was exploring becoming an electric bass. I lifted it off and all was calm. 

 

The words are from Isaiah. They speak to a longing for comfort, and not seeing the people we love. Two themes that thrum loudly in the background of late.

 

On the way to the airport yesterday John and Aurelle stopped by our oldest daughter's home in Philly. While they did not hug they were in the same room with our granddaughter. The one whose impish smile gives me comfort. Not because she can erase the tragedies that are baked into our collective experience but because being with her, even through a screen, gives me a reason to sing. Like the video of Olly hunkered down in her fort, as if a blanket and flashlight are all she needs to stay calm.

 

Which maybe it is.