I equate the sound of harmonicas to my father’s love.
Their melancholy melody,
Shrill and somber,
So hauntingly beautiful,
Full of life and agony,
Reminiscent of the strain in his voice.
That sound pulls me tears,
Lulls me to sleep,
Passes on his pain the way he passed on the green of his eyes,
The nuance of his mind,
His taste in music.
The more time that goes by the more I listen to music with harmonicas,
Finally understanding how much that sound can hold.
There are no lyrics that could ever say more,
Speak any louder.
I hope the immortality of the music will replace the mortal love of my father,
The love that withered long before I even existed.
I hope all that he never said,
All the promises he couldn’t keep,
Will float on the notes sung by a harmonica.
Keep the tears and the fights and the absences,
The inspiration for all the ways in which I hope to destroy myself,
At bay,
Locked away in some crevice in my mind that can’t be reached,
Alive only in painful memory,
Nightmares that dissolve to whispers of words I’ll never hear.
