The Reunion

I had an uncle who was a strange man. Alone, distracted and strange. Always keeping to himself and speaking rarely, he was none the less very dear to me. Some of my fondest memories are of him and his kind eyes, smoking a cigarette and reading to me when I was young. Or when he would play his favorite guitar, finger picking his nylon strings and looking off into the distance as if he could somehow see the song he was playing.

My grandmother had played piano and there was always music in their house as he was growing up. My father told me about a band they had when they were younger, but my uncle was the only one who had stuck with his instrument and kept playing through the years. His nose stuck in fantasy novels and his hands stuck to his old classical guitar, though he wasn’t a classical player.

Looking back, it seems to me that he was almost searching for something with his guitar. On the rare occasion that he opened up and spoke freely with me, he would talk about his songs like they were steps on a path that he was following to somewhere. To a place he could just about see when he played. I remember the last time I heard his music.

It’s been thirteen years since the reunion and I still find myself thinking about it often. Usually very late when the night is quiet. I’ll take a break from my books and suddenly it’ll feel in the silence that the whole world is holding it’s breath and waiting. I don’t know where those moments come from, but It’ll always pop into my mind then. Something happened there that I’ve never been able to figure out, and we’re all still haunted by that single gathering.

The family had come together in a clearing in an old forest and we feasted. Everyone brought their favorite foods and shared them together in a large tent that was bought just for the occasion. As the night fell my uncle brought out his guitar and sat alone, lit a fire outside and started to play. Everyone else spent a few hours talking and eating. Catching up.

Eventually what was needed to be said was said and everyone slowly gravitated to the fire and my uncle who sat, staring, plucking his music. The conversation slowly died off and everyone eye’s were drawn first to my uncle, and then into the flames. Even though most of my family sing or play some kind of instrument, no one even tried to join in. He just kept playing as if no one was there. Fingers picking his nylon string guitar which had been tuned down to some minor key. A slow haunting melody I had never heard before, and have never heard since.

We sat and witnessed the fire slowly burning down. Trance like we listened, each of us drawn deep into ourselves. Occasionally someone would snap out of it long enough to throw a new log in, and then they’d be back in the their place. Watching. I think maybe we all saw the music that night, but I’ve been over it so many times that I may just be imagining it at this point.

My uncle continued to play, slow and haunting, and we continued to stare into the flickering light. It was as if there was some answer there. Like if we just looked deep enough, something profound would be revealed. A slow breeze blew through the leaves of the forest, and it sounded just like the trees had joined in with his song. The world held its breath and we listened.

The shadows seemed to darken beneath the trees, and his song slowly picked up into a faster pace. The increasing wind began to flute through the branches now, accompanying my uncle. The flames became larger but began to flicker less. His is pace grew faster. The shadows continued to darken and the flames grew ever brighter and more still.

I remember my heart pounding as I stared into that blinding light and listened to the now almost frantic tempo of my uncles song. No longer haunting, it was now something inevitable. Like an avalanche pouring out of him through his hands and his instrument. I still find the music I heard that night as something beyond what a single person could possible play on a guitar. It sounded like he had been joined by many other players from those deep shadows surrounding the ice still inferno.

At least that’s what I think I remember.

We snapped out of it as dawn broke.

The fire had burned down to embers, and the family was all there. Standing and stretching like we had all just woken up from a long sleep. I had a vague feeling that I was forgetting something. Something I’m still trying to remember to this day.

My uncle and his guitar were gone as if they’d never been. We searched for him for hours but there wasn’t a trace to be found. No one could remember anything beyond the slow haunting song and staring into the fire. I mean, at some point he must have stopped playing and left, but we still don’t know. He hasn’t been seen since. Never even showed up back at his home. That was the last time our family gathered together.

I miss him, but I can’t help feeling like maybe he found that secret I could almost see in those burning logs that night. Maybe he’s still there, in that clearing plucking his strings around a campfire somehow. Maybe just somewhere else. Maybe he’s found his way behind the flames, in the place where he could always almost see his music.

My family dismissed the things I remembered as a dream, and maybe they were right. I was still pretty young at the time. I don’t think anyone will ever be sure about what happened there in the forest, but in those moments when the world seems to holds it’s breath late at night, I think I can just about hear that slow haunting melody again.