Violet Memories

Violet Memories.

Killing me softly. (Norman Gimbel and Charles Fox)

In memory of Roberta Flack. (1937 -2025)

I heard he sang a good song, I heard he had a style. And so, I came to see him and listen for a while. And there he was, a young boy. A stranger to my eyes.

“Mar, you ought to go.” My colleague said. “He’s good.”

I’m always looking to sign someone new and have spent many nights in bars and open-mike clubs. Listening, watching. The world is impatient and easily bored. The public demands something new, they want to see a new face, hear a new sound.

That night, I sat at a small table in the back, nursing a glass of Pinot, waiting for this new voice. I didn’t sit back because I’m afraid of being recognized. My face is not the one in the papers. No, I’m in the background, out of sight, away from the cameras and floodlights, pulling the puppets’ strings. And I like it back there.

He was just a kid, maybe a few years out of school. Just a skinny kid with a guitar. Someone hiding in a hoodie. You’d pass him on the street and wouldn’t give him a second look. Then he struck a chord and started to sing. His dark chocolate voice filled the bar, demanding attention which everyone gave freely. His voice was the only substance in the small space. Even the bartender stopped washing glasses.

He sang about life. A life more complex than he had yet lived. One song after another. He sang of young love and misunderstandings. Of honey and pepper. He sang of missed connections and empty arms. Of frozen tundra and dry riverbeds. He sang of old tears and lost dreams. Of overcast skies and slippery ghosts.

I felt all flushed with fever, embarrassed by the crowd. I felt as if he had found my letters and read each one aloud.

It was as if he knew me, had eavesdropped on my memories. As if he knew all the things I could have, should have said, and never did. His songs brought back too many memories. Memories of her. Violet memories.

I saw her standing before me. With that spark in eyes, her hair wild and bigger than her face, a laugh to match. I could almost feel her enthusiasm for life again. I remembered being in awe of what she said, thought and did. Of her artistry, her style and generosity.

We met by accident, a roll of the dice when a teacher matched us up for a project. We fought out of principle, till we didn’t. We shared a love for music. She had a voice with magnificent range and depth, especially for someone so young. She listened to my comments about arrangement, pacing, breathing and expression. We made plans, were going to conquer the world, one song at a time. Though our lives and backgrounds were different, from opposites sides of town, we became best friends. Until…

It was such an old story and had been played out in so many ways. A neighbor, too friendly, a surprise pregnancy, secrets, and accusations. I suggested we run away together. But we were only sixteen and she was whisked away the next day. The rumor around school, for a week or so was that she was sick and needed treatment. Then she was forgotten.

The next year only her shell returned. The Violet I knew, my laughing friend was gone. She shied away from everyone, wouldn’t look at anyone. She’d skirt the walls, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around her books. When I would sit with her at lunch, she’d move away. I missed my friend. Didn’t know how to touch her, what to say to bring her back. She drifted away like dandelion spores on a breeze.

I lost her. When I went away to college she disappeared. When I looking for her one day, a year or two later, she had moved. Her mother wouldn’t talk to me. And tonight, this boy is ripping my heart out.

I prayed for him to finish, but he just kept on strumming my pain with his fingers. Singing my life with his words and killing me softly with his song.

Would I sign him? Could I hear his songs and not crumple each time, not think of her? Not wonder what happened to her, where she was now. Wonder if music was still a part of her life. And yet, I had to. I had to hear his songs and do penance for not being a better friend, for not having tried harder. And he must share his talent. I told myself that if I let him be what Violet and I had dreamed so many years ago I might find peace.

I gave the waitress my card and asked her to hand it to the boy. When he finished his set, he sat down with me, Held out his hand. “My name is Martin.” He said. I nodded. “Martina. Call me Mar.” I talked about possibilities, venues, and the future. We agreed to meet again to make a demo, hammer out a contract and schedules.

I know my job. I know talent and potential. I know how to get the most from my clients and demand the best for them. I know how much to expect from them, how much they have to give and what support they need. And I know not to become attached to them. I’m just as replaceable as they are. But this kid was different.

One night, after a performance we sat down and talked. He told me that he was the only child of a single mother. An aunt raised him. “My mother was in and out of my life. Chronic depression.” He said. “When she was good, she sang for me and with me. She gave me her writing, her poetry. Such talent.” He shook his head. “But she had secrets, things she couldn’t or wouldn’t talk about, Things that sucked her back under.” He was quiet for a while, stirring his cold coffee. “She said I was named after someone important to her.” A shrug. “But she never told me who.”

When I asked, he said her name was Violet. He added she passed not long before he took to the road.

Killing me softly with her words.

The End.