She Watches Me Sing

Deep breath. I take a long deep breath. My face burns from the lights in the sky. I’m not quite sure if it’s from the heat given generously from the 700w bulbs, or the seventy plus people waiting anxiously for me to make a sound. I search amongst the shadows looking for a familiar face. It’s no use. I could only see a small light emphasizing the hairlines of each figure sitting in the dim lit venue. Before reality could have a chance to take a punch, I close my eyes for a moment.

My eyes open.

I find myself standing on a very small stage in a very large room. No stage lights. The entire room is painted white, including the stage, with several stains from the community use over the years. I recognize this room as the cafeteria during festivals. The room is nearly empty, with a table about ten feet in front of me with a few judges watching me intensely.

“Are you ready?” The judge shuffled his papers in his hand and tapped them twice on the table before setting them down. The three looked at me waiting for an answer this eleven-year-old did not have. I turn to my left.

There stood a woman wearing a black polo with a logo from a local company down the road, some off gray pants worn loosely around her hips, and leather steel boots. Her hair was a bright strawberry blonde, cut short to her liking, the freckles on her face really stood out in the bright sunlight shining through the windows in the ceiling. She had this proud expression on her face, I didn’t know where it came from, but I looked at her to know if I should go on. She smiled sweetly; her cheeks raised to create small wrinkles under her eyes as she squinted them. She gave me a nod.

I turned back to the shuffling paper judge and I took a deep breath. The music began to play and I took my hand and placed it on the microphone. My part to open my mouth and sing was coming up. I close my eyes.

And then open.

The act before me just walked into the greenroom. The smell of cookies was filling the room from the afterparty upstairs. I keep wiping my hands on my jeans from the moisture that keeps appearing. I wasn’t nervous, but maybe I was. I kept rubbing my thumb on the back of my guitar for comfort, but now that the young dancer has walked back into the room, I know it’s my turn to go.

I make my way the side curtain where I begin to see shadows in the audience. This place had at least a hundred figures; all here to watch one of their love ones compete for first place. That wasn’t my top goal, but it was something to strive for.

“She’s been playing guitar since she was thirteen years old!” Every word booming throughout the theater just meant I was a couple seconds closer to being the one everyone had their eyes on. I couldn’t help, but think; You got this! This is what you’ve been practicing for! All you gotta do is take a deep breath and show them what you’re made of.

From where I was standing, the red headed woman was sitting in the second row towards the middle of the isle waiting patiently. Her video camera was holding steady as she was recording the host’s intro. In the corner of my eye, I seen movement that broke my concentration on the woman. I was being gestured to the wooden stool in the middle of the stage. The microphone was ready, the cable to plug into my guitar was lying on the floor beside the stand. The man smiled at me and nodded for reassurance. I took my steps nervously into the audience’s view.

I blink.

The stool disappeared. Now stood two microphone stands side by side. My golden yellow guitar now a Mahogany brown. Beside me stood a young man in his early twenties. He walked out onto the stage by my side and we each stood in front of a microphone. The audience looked slightly different. The red headed woman was no longer in the second row. Actually, the red headed woman was very difficult to see. There was a second row meant for contestants only above the audience where the red headed woman was sitting. She was placed behind a computer using her own personal projector screen to display an American flag behind us.

The song I was about to sing I wrote with the red headed woman. We were sitting in the living room spitting out rhyming words, creating this masterpiece dedicated to surviving families of 9/11. The man beside me got to hear the song and create his own rap lyrics to match the story being told. This was the first time we would be performing together on stage. I smiled up at the sky, the audience, and the young man by my side. I took my deep breath and closed my eyes.

And open.

Fewer stage lights and figures stood in my view. I could see more than just shadows in front of me. The booth in front of me had a man wearing headphones, ready to adjust sounds to the live performers. Above him was a long metal railing sitting in front of several tables with guests enjoying drinks and food from this local bar. I gaze over the shadows and I find a familiar face. The red headed woman sitting at the table closest to the railing. Today was a very special day. Today was her birthday. She could have done anything she wanted today, gone out to eat, gotten a birthday cake, spent time in the bathtub watching her favorite shows on her tablet, relaxing after a long day at work. But today she decided to be here holding the camera.

Today I was singing a song I wrote for the red headed woman. A song about all of her support, being at every single performance, talent show, competition, audition, or just me sitting on the kitchen counter singing as loud as I can. Today was going to be the most significant day of my entire life. But I closed my eyes.

Open.

My face was still warm from the lights. I could see the faces of eight judges sitting ten feet in front of me. Two sides of the room seated nearly a hundred guests. It was very quiet. I was sitting on a wooden stool on maybe the smallest stage I’ve ever played on. I took a couple breaths before I placed my hand onto the microphone.

“Hi, everybody! It’s been a while since I’ve played in front of a crowd, so this definitely should be interesting. The song I am about to play, I wrote to tell a story about how you shouldn’t apologize for who you are. No matter what people say, you are who you are and there’s no changing that for anything or anyone in the world. I called this song ‘Hopeless’.” I took a deep breath, took another scan for the red headed woman, then began playing. I could hear each string perfectly, the melody playing over and over in my mind before it even arrived. The audience was completely silent, waiting for my voice to be heard. I let the words flow better than any performance I’ve ever played. The butterflies in my stomach had calmed down, and I was really pouring my heart out.

I’m a hopeless romantic, not just with significant others, but with everyone in my life. I make it a goal to help everyone I can, I never say no, even if it hurts me to be overwhelmed with so many tasks. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I don’t apologize for it even though some have tried to take advantage in my past. I kept a few people very close because they understood me for who I was and embraced it with everything they were. I poured this feeling, these facts about who I am, into the air for the audience to absorb. The bridge of my song was the most emotional part, quiet, but bold, and built up to the last chorus to become the grand finale of emotional existence.

“I’m hopeless, that’s what people say. That I’m reckless, kissing in the rain. Don’t wake me up, don’t bring me down, let me stay insane, because if I’m hopeless, I’m not gonna change what makes me me.”

I strummed my last chord, tears had already rolled down my face. I looked out to the audience looking for something. I wasn’t sure at the time, but I was looking for the proud look on the red headed woman’s face. I lost my breath as the audience stood up clapping. Another tear steamed down my face, my butterflies were flying a million miles an hour, I could feel my heart beating in my chest. I did it. The adrenaline rush from taking a risk of opening my heart and playing an emotional song in front of dozens of people, was absolutely intoxicating.

Before I walked off the stage, I looked for the red headed woman. She was nowhere to be seen. Reality took its punch.

From when I was eleven years old going to auditions and talent shows, to twenty-four years old playing in bars and then competing in a songwriting competition, the red headed woman was at every single one. Except this one. My biggest fan, my biggest supporter, my biggest songwriting inspiration was sitting at home with her cane by her side watching Bigfoot videos to keep her entertained.

My significant other, sitting out in the audience, my new second biggest fan, was smiling right at me. He stood clapping for me, so proud of what he just seen. This was his first performance he ever went to. I smile back and close my eyes.

When my eyes open, I find myself standing on freshly mowed grass. I stared at the granite slab sitting in front of me. Perfectly carved daisies on each side, and a lovely quote that said, “You are my sunshine, a loving mother to all.” Underneath the granite slab, laid my red headed mother, peacefully sleeping for eternity. Even to this day, she’s the inspiration to everything I do, my motivation to create beautiful music. It’s not the same playing for large crowds or competitions as it used to be, but sitting in my bedroom, singing at the top of my lungs, is now my relaxing break from reality. I miss this red headed woman more than anything in the world, but I know now she can watch me every day. She’s only missed one performance, but now she’ll never miss another one again.