Page 7 of She's My Kind Of Rain

As I leave my room, I notice that the ladder to the attic remains lowered. Mom must have forgotten to close it. Something about the scene piques my interest so I head towards it and climb each step cautiously, hoping, praying the rickety old ladder doesn’t give out, while simultaneously trying to ignore my fear of heights. But the pull to investigate wouldn’t be ignored.. Each step creaks until I reach the top rung, calling out into the space for my mom.

“Find anything exciting?” I say, once I make my final move up the step and into the wide open loft.

But she’s nowhere to be found. Beyond dust, the room is filled with many things of my past, from my bassinet to bins of all my old clothes and toys, but what captivates my attention most, is my dad’s guitar case. The floor boards groan beneath my feet as I walk across the room and sit down on the floor beside the container that holds the one item my dad held almost as close to his heart as my mom and I. My heart squeezes as I trace my fingers over the fake leather texture imprinted onto its shell. Memories surface of all the times he brought it out and sang songs to me. Sorrow rushes into my chest. The attic feels like the worst place to put something you hold so near and dear. Why would Mom have put this up here? Better yet, why hadn’t I tried to find it until now?

My heart aches, remembering him putting a country twist on old rock songs and changing the lyrics so they would feel like they were written just for me. Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl had been shifted to blue eyed girl, but my favorite was when he would sing Jody Reynolds, Raven Hair—partly because having dark hair was something we shared. Most of the songs he sang were ballads of love which led to me being nothing like all the little girls who dreamed of princes coming to rescue them and take their hand, yet instead finding a love so deep that it hurt, so strong that the only way to express it was by pouring your soul out in a song.

I pick up the case and carefully carry it down the ladder, not sure what my plan will be from here, but glad to be touching something my dad held so close to his heart on a day that mine feels like it’s breaking all over again.

I can’t sleep. I find myself tossing and turning, too many thoughts running through my head. My dad’s guitar case is leaned up against my wall, forming new shadows with its presence in my never changing room. All I can think about is how much I wish my dad was still here, and if life would be any different if he had taken a chance on his dreams rather than staying where he had planted roots. Even though I know it didn’t have anything to do with his health, I still ponder the fact that a change in circumstance could have made a difference.

A red light illuminates across the room, drawing my attention. I must have forgotten to shut the computer down all the way. With a soft sigh, I pull back the covers and trudge to the desk, clicking the mouse buttons and wiggling it to bring the computer back to life. Earlier I could have sworn I unplugged the phone jack, but the moment the screen lights up, there, on the monitor, is the job listing for an A&R Rep for Telluride Records. An odd feeling washes over me, pushing me to fill out the form.

Have I completely lost my mind? A job is in Nashville, means I’d have to not only move there, but leave mom? And yet, my fingers begin to type away until my cursor clicks on the submit button. Did I really just apply for a job at Telluride? Ignoring all of the thoughts and fears, and hopes and dreams bombardingmy brain, I make sure to properly close out the window and shut down the computer before making a b-line toward my bed.

My eyes fall onto my dad’s guitar in the corner. I veer toward it, part of me unsure if I should open it for fear of not wanting to disrupt anything he’d left behind the last time he’d closed it. Without even seeing the guitar again, I can envision it perfectly—An original acoustic Gibson with a vintage sunburst coloring. His strap is old, worn down leather, and the pair had seen more country stages than he said he could even count. Seven years feels like a lifetime, but even more so when the job that connected me to him no longer exists. Thinking about it all makes me miss him that much more. A magnetic pull urges me to open the case, one that I can no longer ignore.. I reach down to unlatch the two closures, hoping that seeing his guitar again might make me feel better about the disconnect I’m feeling with music today.

With an audible click, each clasp lifts with ease as I slowly open the lid and peer inside. There, on Dad’s guitar, is a butterfly postage stamp that I had stuck on it when I was seven. Grandma had yelled at me at the time, but Dad said it added just the right character the moment he saw me upset. The lid flings the rest of the way open, drawing my attention upward. Pinned to the top of the case, is a photo of Dad and I. His blue eyes are filled with joy, this very guitar placed in his hands. He looks at me with a love that only a father could have for his daughter, a love so pure you could almost physically feel it when you saw it. The smile on my face says it all. I was more at home than I’d ever been at that moment. And I’m so grateful that there is a photo capturing it.

I pull the guitar out, holding it in my arms for the first time in years. I strum the first few notes of a song I wrote before he passed away, a wave of emotions pummeling into me. My chest squeezes tight and tears swell in my eyes, threatening to spilldown my cheeks. Releasing the guitar, I place it back into its tomb. My eyes return to the picture of us.

My soul aches greatly, knowing that I won’t ever get that moment back, and with that, I close the guitar case, crawl back in bed, and cry myself to sleep.

3

DAISY - MAY 4, 2004

I wakeup feeling like the events from yesterday, though awful at first, might be a blessing in disguise. For some reason, I can’t seem to get Nashville out of my head. It’s like there is some greater force pulling me toward it. I grab a navy lace cami out of my drawer, layer it with a matching navy top, some ripped low-rise bell-bottoms and matching flip flops almost as if I am on autopilot while my mind swirls with possibilities. Turning my wet-dry straightener on, I wait to hear a beep, confirming it’s ready to use before gliding it over my bangs, passing over them twice just in case.

I consider my options here in Tansy, laughing softly to myself because there are none. At least none that could top my previous job. And as I’m stuck at a mental fork in the road, it hits me like a ton of bricks—I should move. The thought seems rather outrageous, honestly, and if I’d have considered it any other time, I would have easily talked myself out of it, but if there was ever a time that made more sense, this was it. So I sit down at my desk again, grabbing a notepad and pen to jot down a list of everything I will need to make this happen. I scribble down the first most obvious necessities that come to mind—a place to live, a job to pay for it, and things like hopefully an easy commuteif I get a chance to work at Telluride—before rebooting my computer to look up places to live.

If I have a good plan, Mom won’t be as upset, I remind myself, hoping that the reminder alone will convince me to move forward.

Within twenty minutes, I’ve only found two potential listings that will leave a decent cushion for me in case I need it. The bad news? They’re not in the greatest neighborhoods according to the photos, and if I don’t want Mom worrying herself to death over me, I need to find something else. With a sigh, I widen my search. Who needs a cushion anyways, right? All I really want is Mom’s support.

Her overprotective mothering has always been something I hated growing up, but right now I’m beyond thankful for it being in the back of my mind. Starting my search again with a new budget in mind, I find way more options, my favorite being this beautiful house just outside the city, but not so far that it would affect commuting to Telluride, if I get the job. And the best part? It comes fully furnished. With newfound hope, I move onto more job searching, should Telluride not end up working out. More and more I believe in my heart that this move to Nashville is meant to be.

Surprisingly enough, there are plenty of job opportunities close to the rental I landed on. I write down the phone numbers for every position available nearby to save money on gas commuting to and from my hopeful future home. I look over the list and slowly exhale. Excited, yet nervous for all that is to come. I close out all the tabs, unplug the phone jack from the computer, and plug the landline back in.

I lift the phone and the dial tone rings out from the other end. Slamming it down, I take a deep breath. Guilt wells up in me, and I reconsider my entire plan. What will she think? Will she see it for the amazing opportunity I think it is, or will she feel likenow she’s losing me too? First Dad...now me. I could abandon the idea, back out without anyone knowing what I had planned. But, just like Dad used to always say, “You miss out on all the opportunities you don’t take.” I guess the worst that can happen is that I’d fall instead of fly, but I am lucky enough to know that either way my mom will always still love me.

I exhale slowly, trying to remind myself that nothing is permanent. I can’t risk the opportunity of trying something new on fear alone, so I pick the phone back up, dialing the realtors office first, since living somewhere is definitely my top priority. I pack a suitcase full of all my clothes, which oddly enough isn’t many, and then toss in a few family photos, so that no matter what, my new house feels like a home.

After everything is as squared away as it can be, I take one more look over my room and grab Dad’s guitar, worry now settling back in my gut. I hope Mom understands, but even if she doesn’t, I have to do something for myself for once. I head downstairs, my breathing becoming more and more shallow with each step I take toward the kitchen.

“Good morn—Sweetie, what is all this?” Her eyes flick to my bags, then land on Dad’s guitar.

Well, here goes nothing.“I was up most of the night and then this morning, really thinking about life,” I blurt out. “Mostly about what my answer would be if someone were to ask me what my dream life looked like, and I realized something...”

My mom’s eyes shift from the case then to me, worry lingering in her look.

“I don’t know what my dream life would be, because I’ve always spent so much time just trying to make sure to fit Tansy Bay into that answer. And because of that, I’ve never even considered venturing out to discover what the possibilities were,” I continue to ramble, still piecing everything together myself, while trying to remain confident in my decision.

She shifts her stance crossing both arms across her chest as she listens.

“Last night, I was looking for you in the attic and stumbled upon dad’s guitar, and it got me thinking about the opportunity he gave up so that he could stay here with us. I know he always felt that was the right choice, and for him it might have been, but for now I have nothing forcing me to stay here…” My hands feel clammy, thanks to the anxiety, and I adjust my grip on the handles of everything I am carrying. “...Not even a job as of yesterday. So I’ve made the very rash decision to make an adventure out of this. I was saving up to get my own place, but since there is really no reason to buy a house near W.M.G, why not take a chance and head to Nashville?”

Her eyes look like they might pop right out of her head with the word vomit I just spewed out. “...Nashville?”

---