Dusty Feet

"Gon' head now. Play what you feel, Delia. Give those butterflies in ya belly something to dance to!"

Papa Red never accepted my anxiety as anything more than funny feelings. He would say, "the butterflies won't be happy until they hear you play and if there ain't no music, then there ain't no peace."

Sweat on the strings of a guitar. It makes things heavier than they should be and all I can think of right now are Papa Red's words, "play what you feel, Delia. Play what you feel. Play. What. You. Feel."

Dammit! What is it I feel?

There is a clock. It ticks. I can feel the ticking. I can feel time moving on without me. A woman is sitting near the clock. She reads the pamphlet in her hand. She checks the time of the watch on her wrist. I can feel time trying to catch up with her. The large mahogany door directly below the clock opens. The woman's daughter walks out and from the expression on the young girl's face, time stopped all too abruptly for her. I can feel what betrayed her.

"If there ain't no music, then there ain't no peace."

Dammit, Delia! What is it you feel?

Is it fear? Fear that the music won't bring you peace this time around? That is all I had to look forward to growing up back home. Music. Momma sang lead in our church's choir every Sunday and still does. It was damn near church every morning in our kitchen the way momma use to serenade our breakfast. Her voice is transcendental in the way that it can make you forget your surroundings. Every note that slips out of that woman's mouth feels thick like molasses. It coats you in a proverbial warmth. Daddy told me once that hearing momma sing for the first time made all his feelings of loneliness disappear. Now, daddy on the other hand, had no dealings in music or rhythm. But, after he met my momma he never shied away from getting off the front porch to dance whenever Papa Red took to his guitar.

Preston 'Red' Magill, my grandfather. My mother told me he got his nickname from his schoolmates. He was the only copper-colored boy in town. If you took a penny to his skin, the penny would vanish. He is the reason I am sitting here now in front of this clock, guitar in hand, and fear in my heart.

When I was younger, I would get off the porch to dance with daddy and momma too. They would call me "Dusty Feet" because somehow my shoes were never in sight.

"Delia, where are your shoes girl?", Momma would shout time and time again.

"Now let her dance, Adalie. Dancing ain't never required shoes." Papa Red never failed to defend me against my mother and I repaid his heroism by learning how to play his guitar.

My grandfather would sit for hours playing his "old piece of wood" as he called it. He didn't know how to read music, but he knew every note, every chord, how to put things together, and how to make it sound sweeter than the taste of blackberry pie. His soul connected to the strings in some inexplicable way. I would watch him closely, carefully, and if I stared long enough I could witness the exact moment his fingers would melt into the strings.

As a single man, my grandfather and his guitar stretched all across Shreveport, Louisiana. When I was about 10 years old, I came across a photo of him pinned on the bulletin board of an old hole-in-the-wall sandwich shack. It wasn't a picture of him solely, but with an old band called 'The Blue Note Players'. He played as a backup guitarist for many aspiring bands back-in-the-day. And, there he was in the background of that yellowing image. Eyes locked on the strings of his guitar. Hands melting. I have come to find many musicians play for a sense of escape, but I feel it had to have been quite the opposite for my grandfather. There was a welcoming home of sorts whenever he played; as if nothing could bring him more into the present moment than hearing the sound of those tattered, brass plated, strings.

What if I haven't got soul? What if the butterflies in their bellies won't dance when hearing me play? They'll say she hasn't got soul, because we still can't feel our own. Time will stop. I will want it to stop. I hope it stops long enough for me to leave this place without my presence ever being noticed.

There is a clock. It ticks. I can feel the ticking.

Maybe I should leave. Did I learn how to play because I wanted to make Papa happy or was it for me? Do I feel connected to this piece of wood? Will it even want to melt into me? Am I even any good? Sure, momma and daddy would think so. Parents lie. Parents are good at lying to their children. Lie to keep them happy. Lie to protect them. Lie until they are old enough to understand. What if they lied to me all these years?

Butterflies. The butterflies in the pit of my stomach have never lied to me. Whenever I play, they dance. They too must dance without shoes because I stop feeling them the moment I hear the sound of my guitar. Maybe that is what Papa Red meant. If there is no music, then there is no peace. He knew the butterflies all too well himself. He felt this anxiety all the same as I do. The only way through it is to play for it, to welcome it, and to forget the rest.

The clock stops ticking.

"Delia Ray?"

"Yes?"

"We are ready to begin your admissions audition. Please take three to four minutes to prepare what you will play."

"Miss, I will play what I feel."