Where You Belong

Take it easy, he says, it'll be fine. 
Shaking fingers reach steady keys, a trembling voice touches the microphone, softly at first, then louder, the spine straightens. Soft notes stumble across rolling tape, little paw prints etch their ink into just a few minutes of air time. Glasses of wine empty, temperatures rise, the cats traipse along the edges and keep quiet when he pushes the record button. An aching mind finds a million mistakes, but a singing soul knows no steps off key. The night grows longer; we sit at a bar around the corner and speak of life, while music falls to the sidelines.

But when I return home, the to-do list long and the alarm clock looming in hours near, I hear a song stream from my phone, and it is as though all the anguish never was, as though all the questions and all the life that run in a million directions simply rest, simply wait. Four minutes of air in my lungs, of calm in my mind.

It's not that big a deal, he says.

He has no idea.