My mouth is dry and my heart is thumping in my chest.
I know he feels the same way because I can feel his rapid heartbeat from two feet away. Jaw clenched as he is chews on his lower lip and his eyes are glazed off into the distance.
He wants me here for this, yet he has a protective barrier surrounding him demanding silence. In our silence we both remember. Two separate stories formed from the pain of missing one another.
I watch him take a deep breath as he prepares to confront his nerves and fears. He looks taller and sturdier in his shoes every time I see him. The sparkle of life has returned to his eyes after a long period of hibernation.
He grabbed his guitar with confidence and determination as he took the stage. I am filling my lungs with as much air as they can hold as I pull my shoulders back and try to follow the example has just been set for me. I hold my head up and stand tall as I walk to my seat.
His cheeks have a rosy glow, and I am the only one who knows this is a symptom of his nerves. Yet he holds himself steady while he takes focused control of his environment on the stage.
He appears remarkably calm compared to the way I am feeling with my tight chest bursting with emotions that desperately need to be released.
He is playing the guitar on a stage with a group of critical eyes examining his every move and assessing his technique. His fingers are moving with quick precision and skill acquired from the endless hours of practicing in his room alone.
His eyes begin to move into that magical land where true genius can emerge and masterpieces are made. He is allowing his soul and the music to dance opening the angelic door where miracles have permission to manifest.
I can no longer hold back the tears, I don’t have a tissue, and I don’t care.
I can feel every minute of him playing and practicing in his room alone while he was missing me and wondering what happened to his family. He would bleed his pain into each strum of the strings and this is how he found a way to continue another day without me.
In every note and every chord the music of missing me fills the room with harmony. The judges tap their feet and nod their heads to the beat as the music gently touches their souls.
As he plays he is shedding his pain and is opening the door to receive love and joy in his heart once again.
He is playing Jimi Hendrix like a true rock star, he is playing with his heart and the joy of music fills the air. He has a gift, he is strong, and he is embracing this moment. He doesn’t know how good he is, but he has faced his fears and he has found a way to overcome his pain.
He is spectacular, and he is my son.
The guitar that held my sons pain has given him the miracle of beautiful music. It is the music of missing me.
There he stood before me Looking taller and stronger as he took the stage His cheeks tinted with a rosy glow A sign of nerves only I would know
The painful places that led to today Alone in his room he learned to play The chords and notes navigated his way Teaching him how to live without me one more day.
With every note a tear became a tune In his pain and loss, standing alone He is playing the music of missing me The harmony and medley Of what his family used to be.
The crowd tapped their feet In the space where genius and tragedy meet. A masterpiece is made As the pain of yesterday begins to fade.
His soul and music danced Giving a miracle a chance Opening the angelic door
To let go of what was before.
The music of missing me Danced on the stage for the judges to see Healing had finally begun. For myself and for my son.
This is the music of missing me. This is the song of me missing my son.
Lisa Boeck-Jenkins is a mother, photographer, artist,(BFA from the University of Utah),writer, speaker, and founder of an organization that works to bring awareness and assist victims of digital domestic abuse and cyber stalking.
She found herself when she lost everything and works to encourage and inspire others. She believes in the power of the story. Every story is a miracle that someone has been waiting to receive.
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