Bars and Butterflies by Grace Kilian Delaney

Author:Grace Kilian Delaney [Delaney, Grace Kilian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-11-14T16:00:00+00:00

7

Laguna Beach thrums with an array of people dining in the restaurants and strolling along the store-lined streets. Tourists, locals, beachgoers, and buskers are out in droves, basking in the beautiful sunny day typical of Southern California. The cool ocean breeze alleviates the full impact of the sun’s heat. Life goes on around me, people laughing, playing volleyball, touring the shops. I’m miles away, unseen, removed and detached as I walk with my gear to the restaurant.

Mom sounded good when we spoke this morning. She wished me luck—she always does when I perform, no matter how big or small the gig—and apologized for not being able to see me today. That’s Mom. Always supportive.

I enter the Main Sail and greet the manager who directs me to the petite stage in back where I’m performing. The wooden platform is no higher than a step above the main floor, but it’s cozy and perfect for a small trio or a solo act like myself. I set up the microphone and a midsized amp, and open my guitar case to let the instrument adjust to the room’s temperature before tuning.

The automatic routine allows my mind to drift. The idea of my mother going under the knife is paralyzing, rendering me acutely aware of mortality, even more so than the death of my sister and her family. I’m diving into a rabbit hole of stinkin’ thinkin’, and I’m counting on the music to stop the noise in my head.

I finish tuning my instrument and play without introduction. People glance at me as the first few notes of the chart-topping love song fills the air. Some continue to watch; most go back to their conversations and their meals. The unique raspy quality of my voice has earned me a fair share of compliments, but it lacks the rich resonance of the trained vocalists I hear in the college’s practice halls. Then again, this isn’t a venue conducive to Puccini’s Nessun Dorma.

I transition from the pop song into Danza in G by Granados, a Spanish dance, a piece far more suited to the nylon string guitar I’m playing. I continue through my repertoire, adding pieces from the upcoming recital among my usual blend of Spanish, classical, and pop songs that I enjoy playing. The music is a meditation requiring me to be being present for each beat, each note’s articulation and dynamic. The music leaves no room to think about anything else, and I’m grateful for the temporary escape.

During the last half hour of my set, I’m distracted. Without taking my eyes away from the fretboard, I sense Gael’s presence at the restaurant, that now familiar serene wave. Peace. A sense of joy and love. I felt it at the coffeehouse, in Balboa Park, at his daughter’s house. It lifts away a level of anxiety I hadn’t known was there. Breathing comes easier. The muscles in my neck, shoulders, and even my stomach are more relaxed. When I strum the last chord, I’m not surprised to find the dark-haired man clapping at a nearby table, astonishment shining in his eyes.

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