4:30 in the morning
awake, sleep as elusive
as the Holy Grail,
I reach for my
sedative,
headphones, iPod
and lose myself in
musical reverie as
I have done so
many mid-nights before.
The open guitar
arpeggios
Robert Plant quietly,
unfolds the story in
melody
with the skill of an
Ancient Celtic bard.
I find myself in a car
on a hill overlooking
the construction of
Interstate 35 south,
a warm, sunny June
Sunday afternoon,
on a quest for a
music major picnic in
Owatonna
to a park now lost to
memory.
On this hill in ’71,
stuck in traffic,
I first marvelled
at the harmonic rhythms
the mythic quality of words,
a Stonehenge druidic
spell
built into music form,
one long crescendo
to a climax, ending in
a plaintive
anti-climax.
My inquisitiveness
elicits disbelief and
wonder
etched into the faces
of
Dan and Larry, my companions
in music and travel.
Three years later,
in the warmth of June
the nuptials of Kathy
Daas,
beckons us to Owatonna.
Long Auburn hair,
gentle
dignified features, the
nimble
graceful fingers of a
Viola major
encased in a flowing
white
processes with her
widowed
father down the aisle to
her groom.
Gathered to toast
life and health to this
newly created couple,
I turn to you
and silently whisper
the same toast for us.
Traveling back to
St. Paul, the strains
of the music return to
consciousness, in
memory as wondrous
as it first was.
The room is dark,
you turn toward me
as the last dominant
seven
chord sounds, and Plant
sings the final,
plaintive pitches.
My hand reaches
undercovers to yours.
I gently hold your hand
My thumb softly
caressing.
The silent, whispered
toast
has come true.
Why buy a Stairway to
Heaven,
when heaven is laying
right next to me?
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