She watched him closely, her eyes following the subtle movements of his fingers as they danced lightly over the guitar strings, each note delicate and precise. The soft hum of the music filled the room. When he finally stopped playing, he leaned back in his chair and released a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of years gone by.
"You still got it," she said.
He propped the guitar against the wall, "It is what it is," he said, his tone flat, almost resigned.
"You play so well. I know you still love it," she insisted, hoping to ignite a spark of passion in him.
"I think you love it more than me," he said.
He stood up, shrugged on a worn coat, and walked outside. Little drops of rain began to peck at the tin roof of the house, creating a soft, rhythmic pattern that echoed in the quiet night. In the distance, the fields stretched out before him, turned and ready to plant, their dark, rich soil contrasting sharply with the pale sky. He wondered if his body could endure another year. The ache in his back gnawed at him, tension coiling in his nerves like barbed wire wound too tight. His father's voice echoed in his mind, talking about how alive the land made him feel, extolling the virtues of hard work. But he didn’t care. He didn’t share his father’s dream. He had wanted to sew his seeds far from Providence County. When Memphis State offered him a music scholarship right out of high school, he couldn’t wait to leave. He knew he was bigger than this town. Yet now, he stood on the same creaky porch his father had, gazing out at the same fifty acres—the dreams of his youth buried beneath mortgaged soil.
***
She stared into the mirror, her finger tracing the parallel lines of worry between her brows. She pressed her hands against her cheeks, rubbing hard enough to bring some color back into her pale skin. Piling her hair on top of her head, she tilted her face to the side and froze, studying the weary reflection that stared back. Finally, she let her hair fall loose, the strands tumbling down like the weight of her burdens onto her shoulders.
She worried about him. She watched him stand outside each night, hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring off into the distance as if searching for something long lost. She knew how his body ached, could see it in the way he moved—stiff, as if every step pained him. She made sure supper was ready every night when he got home, the smell of freshly cooked food filling the house, and fixed a pitcher of lemonade for him at lunchtime, its tart sweetness a small comfort on sweltering Arkansas days. He used to drink the whole pitcher and clean his plate, savoring every bite. Lately, he only sipped, barely tasting it, his gaze fixed on the window as if he could see beyond the horizon. He barely touched his food.
The first time she saw him, he was leaning casually against a lamppost near the campus library, the sun casting a warm glow on his profile as he read Faulkner. The Hamlet, she thought, though the memory was hazy now, softened by time. Maybe it was Light in August. It didn’t matter. When she asked if he was enjoying the book, he had smiled sheepishly and confessed he was utterly lost. He said he lived just across the river from Mississippi, and no one he knew talked like the people in Faulkner’s world. She explained it wasn’t the words themselves but the emotions they conveyed that mattered. He grinned and said that if hard times gave you a great vocabulary, he hadn’t suffered enough. She had laughed, a sound that still echoed in her memory.
He told her he was studying music and that he and his roommates had a band, The Flexibles. They played out on weekends. She told him she liked music, and he invited her to come see them. So she did, and ever since, they had been inseparable. She’d given him three girls. With each one, he seemed to grow more distant. He played music less and worked more. Now, his guitar sat against the wall, collecting dust—no longer an instrument of passion but a hollow box hewn from wood and strung with wire.
***
He watched her sleep, the faint glow of moonlight slipping through the curtains and casting soft shadows on her skin. His eyes followed the gentle curve of her back, from her shoulders down to her hips. When they were young, he loved to run his fingers down that path, the heat of her skin igniting something primal in him. Her skin would turn a deep, coffee brown in the summer, and smelled like coconut oil. He ached to touch her now, to feel that warmth again, to roll her over and make love to her like they used to in their wilder days. But he knew she was tired, that her body craved rest more than his touch.
He hated that he had robbed her of her dreams. When they met, she had so many. She wanted to move to Oxford and study writing at Ole Miss. She loved Barry Hannah and Willie Morris, and her eyes lit up when she talked about their work, her voice animated with a passion that he found intoxicating. She had wanted that more than anything, back before motherhood and domesticity had dulled her spirit. He used to love listening to her discuss books and authors, how this symbolized that, and how everything carried a meaning he had never considered. But now, that vibrant young girl was gone, replaced by someone he barely recognized—a zombie-like shell of the woman he used to know. The guilt of it all gnawed at him until only whiskey could dull the ache. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling fan as its blades whirred in a steady rhythm, the sound blending with the chorus of crickets fiddling outside the window until he finally fell asleep.
***
She flushed the toilet, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness of the night. She hoped it wouldn’t wake him. He was a light sleeper, always had been, and he needed his rest more than ever now. She stood at the edge of the bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, the rhythmic breath of sleep that made him look so peaceful, so unburdened. When she was sure he was sound asleep, she quietly left the room, the floorboards creaking under her weight despite her best efforts to move silently.
The house was dark, and still, the girls were all asleep in their rooms. The only sounds were the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant call of a night bird. She crept on her toes through the front room, careful not to disturb the quiet. She opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch. The cool night air kissed her skin, and the moon hung low behind a veil of misty clouds, its pale light casting a silvery glow over the yard.
She sat on the porch swing, the old chains creaking softly as she pushed herself back and forth with her toes. The gentle motion reminded her of her youth when she would float through life without a care, finding beauty in everything around her. She closed her eyes, letting the memories of a long-ago night in Biloxi wash over her—the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, the sharp scent of salt in the air mixed with the tang of whiskey on his breath. She felt the sting of his stubble as he kissed her neck, the roughness of his hands as they pulled her close. He drove her crazy. He always had. Even now, after all these years, he still made her weak with desire. She wanted him, but she wouldn’t wake him. Instead, she slid the hem of her nightgown above her knees and let her fingers wander, her memories fueling a fire that had never truly gone out. She allowed the pleasure to build until it consumed her, crashing over her like the waves on that Mississippi beach all those years ago.
***
The girl behind the counter wrapped his sandwich in wax paper. She dropped it into a brown paper sack, rolled the top down, and handed it to him with a smile. Her fingers brushed his when he took it from her, the brief touch sending a small, unexpected thrill through him. She gave him his change, her hand lingering on his as she placed the money in his palm. She looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, and he nodded before turning away.
He drove to the bank and parked in the lot beneath a crepe myrtle, its branches heavy with bright red blooms that looked like flames against the blue sky. The smell of the blossoms filled the air, sweet and cloying. He unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite, chewing slowly. He didn’t particularly like bologna or coffee, but coffee was free, and bologna on light bread was only a dollar. He didn’t have the extra fifty cents for cheese.
As he sat there, he thought about the girl at the diner and how she had held his hand, looked at him like he was someone who could change her life, take her far away from this small, suffocating town. She had tiny freckles that dotted her cheeks like a sprinkling of cinnamon, and she smelled faintly of honeysuckle. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be with her, to have another woman—another life.
In his youth, Memphis had brimmed with opportunities. He’d played at every club, the smoky haze thick in the air, mingling with the smell of stale beer and sweat. The neon lights outside pulsed in rhythm with the music, casting a colorful glow over the crowded streets. He had rubbed shoulders with some of the best players around, the kind of musicians who made their instruments sing like they were breathing life into them. They called him Slick. He played slide guitar and made it moan like a whore, the notes bending and wailing in a way that made the crowd lean in closer, drawn to the raw emotion in his sound.
He missed those nights—the adrenaline surging through his veins as he stepped onto the stage, and the excitement of the clubs, where the air was thick with the scent of cigarettes, spilled liquor, and cheap perfume. His clothes would cling to his body, drenched in the delta heat, his skin slick with sweat as he lost himself in the music. He missed the electric hum that buzzed in his ears long after the last chord had faded, the echo of applause that reverberated through his chest like a heartbeat. He missed the smell of cigarettes and alcohol on the breath of strange women, their eyes filled with promises of fleeting pleasures, and the feel of unfamiliar sheets on unfamiliar beds, the rough cotton cool against his skin. He missed the freedom of it all—the sense that the night held endless possibilities, each one more intoxicating than the last.
He pulled himself back to reality with a heavy sigh and wiped the thought from his mind as if erasing a chalkboard. The present loomed before him like a stark contrast to the vivid memories. He wadded up the wax paper from his sandwich, the crinkling sound sharp in the quiet of the truck, and stuffed it into the paper sack. Before he walked into the bank, he tossed it all in the trash.
***
They both stood and stared, their eyes glazed over, detached from what they saw. They watched as the men loaded their belongings onto a truck, the dull thud of boxes and furniture echoing through the empty house. Piece by piece, nearly everything they owned passed before them, disappearing into the dark cavern of the box trailer. The cool breeze carried the scent of dust and sweat, mixed with the sharp tang of diesel from the truck’s exhaust—a bitter reminder that this chapter of their lives was closing. She wiped her eyes, her fingers trembling as they brushed away the tears, and went inside, leaving him standing there, hands in his pockets, unable to move, his body stiff as if rooted to the spot. A light rain began to fall. He thought about what his father would think of him for letting it all go, for not being able to hold on to the one thing that had meant stability. A tear ran down his cheek, and in that moment, he was glad it was raining.
After the men left, they all sat in the kitchen, poking at their dinner—pork and beans, weenies, and cornbread, their last meal in the only home they had ever known. The food felt heavy in their stomachs, tasteless, weighed down by the uncertainty of what lay ahead. The girls were quiet, their usual chatter stilled by the tension in the air, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on them like the unfamiliar walls that would soon surround them. Joelle, the oldest, finally spoke, her voice small in the stillness.
“Daddy, will you play your guitar tonight?”
He looked up from his plate, the fork heavy in his hand. He remembered the joy she brought to them when she was born, the way her first cry had filled the room and his heart. She was beautiful—dark skin, green eyes that sparkled with mischief, and a smile that could melt his will whenever she wanted. He never wanted to disappoint her. He never wanted it to become this—a life so far removed from the dreams he once had.
“Will you, Daddy?” Joelle asked again, her voice tinged with hope and uncertainty.
Her mother smiled gently, trying to shield Joelle from the disappointment she feared would follow. “Daddy’s tired, Jo. It’s been a long day. He might just want to rest,” she said.
He tossed his napkin aside and leaned back in his chair, the weight of the day settling into his bones as he stretched. He felt every year, every unfulfilled promise etched into his back like the lines of a map leading nowhere. “I might play, Jo. I dunno,” he said.
Joelle smiled, a small, hopeful curve of her lips. Her mother’s eyes flicked to him, questioning. She said she would like to hear him play, too, her voice carrying a note of longing.“It’s been so long. I think we’d all like to hear you play,” she said.
“Maybe,” he said, his voice trailing off. “We’ll see.”
***
After dinner, they all lingered in the kitchen, the silence thick and oppressive, broken only by the relentless ticking of the old wall clock. The dishes sat untouched on the table, the remnants of their meal growing cold, congealing in the half-empty paper plates. The girls quietly watched their parents sensing the heaviness that weighed down on the room.
He could feel their eyes on him, each gaze like a tiny, unbearable weight pressing on his already burdened shoulders. He could feel the weight of their expectations, heavy and inescapable. Joelle’s smile, so much like her mother’s, tugged at something deep inside him, a place he had tried to bury along with his music. He hadn’t played for them in so long—hadn’t felt the urge to. Music had once been his escape, his rebellion, the one thing that made him feel alive. But now, it felt like a reminder of all the things he had left behind, all the dreams that had slipped through his fingers like sand.
But tonight, as he looked at his daughters, at the woman who had stood by him through everything—the struggles, the sacrifices—he realized that the music was still there, buried beneath the years of toil and heartache. It wasn’t gone—just dormant, waiting to be awakened.
Without a word, he pushed back his chair, the legs scraping against the worn linoleum, and stood. His wife glanced at him, a question in her eyes, but she said nothing. She just watched him with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
He walked over to where the guitar leaned against the wall, its wood worn smooth by years of use, the once-shiny finish now dulled by time. He picked it up, feeling its weight in his hands, the familiar curve of its body fitting against him like an old friend. The wood was cool beneath his fingers, the strings taut, ready to sing.
He sat back down at the table, and for a moment, he just held the guitar, his fingers resting lightly on the strings. The room was so quiet he could hear the rain tapping on the tin roof, a soft, steady rhythm that seemed to match the beat of his heart. The smell of the rain drifted in through an open window, fresh and earthy.
Then, with a deep breath, he began to play. The notes came slowly at first, hesitant and unsure, but then they flowed more freely, the music pouring out of him like a river that had been dammed for too long. The melody was simple, a song he had written years ago, back when he still believed in the power of dreams. The sound filled the room, warm and rich, wrapping around them like a blanket, chasing away the chill of doubt.
His daughters watched him, their faces lit with wonder, their eyes shining in the dim light. His wife closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her, a small smile playing on her lips. For a moment, the weight of their lives lifted, and they were transported back to a time when anything seemed possible, when the future was bright and full of promise.
As the last notes faded into the night, he set the guitar down gently, almost reverently, feeling a sense of peace he hadn’t known in years. Joelle beamed at him, her smile wide and pure, and his wife reached across the table to take his hand.
“I always love it when you play,” she whispered.
He squeezed her hand, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. For the first time in a long while, a flicker of something long forgotten sparked within him—hope. The dreams of his youth had withered, lost beneath the weight of years, but perhaps, in their ashes, new dreams could take root.
“I’ll play again tomorrow,” he said, the words soft yet resolute, more a promise to himself than to anyone else.
As he said it, the flicker of hope inside of him grew into a flame, and for the first time in years, he believed.
/
DAN RUSSELL is a writer. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Concordia University-St. Paul. He and his wife and family live in Arkansas atop Crowley's Ridge. His debut novel, Poor Birds, will be published by Cowboy Jamboree Press in 2025.
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