Harmonica moods.
Brent will play the harmonica for 3 months straight and then not touch it for what seems like a year. In those times when he plays, it seems an extension of his hand and mouth, A flash of silver in his back pocket, or constantly visible on our dining table, in between the couch cushions, on the kitchen counter.
Whenever he gets in his harmonica moods, I am instantly taken back to the early months of our relationship. When he was a wild boy of twenty four, a bit skinny but in the best way, with jeans that hung low on his hips and rarely a pair of shoes on his feet.
It was spring, we’d just started to let ourselves be really, truly comfortable in each other’s presence. He drove a black Jeep Grande Cherokee that was always messy and full of music equipment. That silver harmonica followed him around in those months and we’d drive around, windows down, our hair whipping at our faces, and he’d play it loudly
I’d just watch him as he drove with one hand and sucked in and out on that harmonica with the other and I was certain my heart was close to exploding out of my chest with adoration.
And now, when his harmonica moods hit, I float a bit more than usual. In the same way breathing deeply into a favorite childhood blanket brings me back to my youth, I feel my heart creep into every extra bit of space between my ribs when the tinny, bold sound of his harmonica’s song fill my ears.
With every note I am reminded that he is still my wild boy.
Love,
M
