A Song for the Road by Kathleen Basi (classic literature books txt) 📕

“Happy,” Brad had said. “You should let yourself be happy.”

She’d be satisfied with much less. She’d be content to walk with her head held high and her heart unfettered again.

How did one simply choose to be happy?

One foot in front of the other. Her feet hurt. Talia’s artistically beat-up Mary Poppins boots were not designed for long walks.

She spotted the twin obelisks marking the end of the bridge long before she reached them. They were built of blond stone, wide at the base, tapering toward the sky, with veins of charcoal running through them. As she passed between the towers, she understood why Blaise had chosen this out-of-the-way, uninspiring-sounding landmark as a destination for the trip. The High Trestle Trail Bridge really was a work of art. Massive rust-colored square frames, angled in a radial pattern, dotted the crossing and created a tunnel effect in the center of the bridge. These must be the “cribbings” Blaise had mentioned.

A bicycle bell rang behind them. “On your left!”

Miriam hugged the rail. The man passed, followed by a woman with a toddler on a seat behind her. “Beautiful day!” she said.

And it was. Miriam glanced over her shoulder. It was a long way down—and a long way across. The wind kept blowing her hair in her face, no matter how many times she tucked it behind her ears. She pulled out her phone to take a pano of the river bottoms, just beginning to emerge from the spring rise. Patches of grass and black soil peeked from the water. Birds circled low, dipping in to grab dinner. So peaceful. So quiet.

The wind grabbed the tassels of Miriam’s scarf-headband and slapped her across the face with them. Miriam chuckled and set off again, now at a leisurely amble. As she walked, she sent the photo to Dicey. Her coiled insides were finally beginning to relax.

On the far side of the cribbings, the bridge deck widened to accommodate twin viewing platforms. She stopped there and shouldered out of the guitar case, letting it rest against the rail as she took in the scenery. Momentarily her phone buzzed. Wow, Dicey said. Wish I could’ve made it.

Miriam crossed her hands on opposite arms, rubbing them for warmth. It was chilly here, much chillier than May in Atlanta, but not as cold as May in the Detroit of her childhood.

When she’d had her fill, she unzipped the guitar case and pulled it out, slipping the strap over her neck and checking the tuning. Then she looked around. There really wasn’t anywhere to sit. She hoisted herself onto the railing in the corner of the overlook platform, wrapping her feet around the bars for stability.

She closed her eyes, searching the vaults of her memory, and began playing softly, then humming “Georgia on My Mind.” How many times had she come home from running kids to practices to hear these chords and Teo’s lovely rich baritone, drifting in from the back deck? It was one of his favorites.

Involuntarily, her lips parted, forming the words quietly, an intimate love song to the place she’d lived with her husband.

It felt like forever since she’d sung. At least, sung like this, with the music vining tenderly around her heart, drawing emotion from her soul, thickening her voice. The song ended too soon. The wind gusted as she transitioned to another of his old standbys—the Fauré “Pie Jesu,” which they’d often sung at weddings at St. Greg’s. Usually, brides wanted the piano or organ, but once in a while Teo convinced someone to let him accompany. It was lovely that way. She closed her eyes, leaning into the music as the cold wind blew her hair around her face. She wasn’t nearly good enough to do it justice, but it brought Teo closer.

In some ways, that was worse. This raw, burning ache in her throat—this gaping hole beneath her sternum—those hurt far worse than guilt and self-recrimination.

Her fingers stilled on the strings. She became aware of the low, mournful keening of the wind, the cry of hawks circling on invisible currents. Aware of the wet, dank smell of mud far below. Of the chill against her skin that grew deeper every moment as the watery sun sank toward the horizon.

“That was absolutely beautiful, ma’am,” said a voice.

She opened her eyes. Leaning on the opposite rail stood a man with gray hair and glasses. Around seventy, she guessed. “Hello,” she said.

“I’ve never heard anybody play out here.”

“It’s a long way to haul an instrument,” she said.

He smiled and nodded, staring at the sinking sun. “It is, that. But worth it if you play like you.”

“You’re far too kind.” Miriam flexed her butt muscles, which were starting to numb against the metal railing. She had a suspicion what was coming, and it meant she’d be here for a while longer. She was starting to get a sixth sense for people who’d experienced loss.

His next words confirmed it. “My wife was a musician,” he said, leaning on the rail.

“Vocal or instrumental?”

“High school choir director. Voice like an angel. We met in a choir, you know. Community choir, for Christmas. Got married six months later.”

“When did you lose her?”

“Six weeks ago,” he said, shaking his head. “Real sudden-like.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. She loved this bridge. Walked it nearly every day. We live just over there.” He waved indiscriminately toward the far end of the bridge. “I was always too busy. Too tired from taking extra shifts, to give her nice trips, when all she wanted was to be with me.”

Miriam nodded. She knew that regret all too well.

“I was taking voice lessons before she died, though,” he said. “I was going to surprise her on our anniversary. But we didn’t make it.”

Miriam’s heart went out to him. She opened and closed her mouth, trying to decide whether to tell him her story: the loss, the significance of today in her marriage.

Teo’s presence perched on her shoulder, the way it had