His Hands

October 10, 2010
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It begins slowly, a steady heartbeat holding everyone together.
Can you hear it?
Deep as his voice, the vibrations fill you. His caramel hands are steady, moving from one string to the other in slow time to the music.
Can you feel it?
His eyes are closed, he is losing himself in the music. You can see your happy place, overreaching palms casing shadows on sand akin to flurries of snow, crystal-clear water looking warm and inviting. You want to go in, but a question stands out in our mind. What is he seeing?
Can you see it?
You focus on his hands, his bending wrist, smooth and sinuous in motion. They are slightly feminine, you can see he does not perform heavy labor with his hands, he creates enchanting spells that wash over you like those waves on that beach…
He is swaying slightly in time to the music. His breath is like a metronome.
Your eyelids are drooping down again, and you can feel the sun on your face. Gulls are calling, their squawks blending with the music.
Can you hear them?
The question is still on the tip of your tongue, you don’t want to break the spell but before you can stop it it’s out of your mouth and adding to the soft noise of the room.
“If you’re playing calming music on your bass can you feel soft Caribbean sand beneath your feet?”
It’s what you see, anyways.
Your breath catches in your throat as he smiles slightly, his eyes still closed.
His tone is drawling, low, a rich sound. “Sure, I always feel calm when I’m playing my bass. It’s soothing and steady.”
You can tell he’s far away, maybe in your place and maybe not, by his nonchalant tone.
All this time, the music hasn’t stopped, his hands play of their own accord the well-worn music that fits like a favorite sweater.
The daydreams weave together, tangible as though you can taste it. Its scent fills the air as you put one foot forward into the gently lapping water.
Another step, then another. The water hugs your body, an embrace that encircles you like his hand encircles the neck of his bass.
The steady thrum fades away slowly, slowly, the music ending so quietly it’s like the sun going down on your island.
You still feel the water on your body, taste the salt in the air, hear the birds cry out.
Your eyes open yet again, to the brown walls of the practice room. His eyes are open too, his smile a lazy drawl.
Can you feel it, see it, taste it?
Can you hear it still?

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