In the sunshine, in the rain, under the clouded sky, he searches.
He no longer remembers her name but he knows her smile, her gray-blue eyes that darken with the weather, her soft sighs at the end of a long day. It’s always on the tip of his tongue, evading his grasp. She was here before, by his side as he traversed these city streets playing music for whoever would listen – before the red pickup truck bounced the curb.
He’s a little fuzzy on which fateful curb it was he saw her last.
People ask him to play, and he obliges. Sometimes they dance. Always they clap. Maybe she’ll hear it; maybe it will draw her near. Sometimes they pay him with change. Always he thanks them.
He’s fuzzy on a lot of things now. It’s been a year since the accident (or is it two?) and his socks never match. That didgeridoo is as much a part of him as his heart. Sometimes people look at him funny as meanders around the city, trying to trigger a memory of her name or what it was like to be alive before his head met that windshield – oh if they only knew the lyrical sound of her belly laughs the way he does. Don’t ask him her name, ask about the first time he tried to teach her circular breathing. Or was it the other way around? Either way, his smile lines will multiply and his eyes will sparkle.
On that curb he held her hand. And then he didn’t.
(Fiction, Short Story)