You will drift into the bar like a ghost taking cover from the last light of dusk. In the doorway, you’ll breathe deeply while the thickness of woodsmoke and the briny scent of thawing fields fill up your lungs. It will remind you of a place trying to rid itself of winter, of life slowly rolling over after a great sleep. All your old friends will be there—over by the pool table, on the last barstool, in the booth by the fire—just as they’d always been, just as you will soon remember them but older now with their silvery hair, arched backs, and faces ricked with misfortune. You’ll look across the room hoping your memory will sharpen as the eyes of strangers beam back at you, and in a flicker of loneliness, you’ll consider turning around and disappearing back into the twilight, but the vacant stares will turn into tender gazes, and all your old friends will call out for you not to leave. One by one they’ll gather themselves and walk over to you with the desire to pull you closer. They’ll not ask anything about your yellowing eyes or how frail you’ve gotten; instead, you’ll feel their tears stinging against your dry cheeks.       A soft voice in your ear will remind you that you are still their star, just as brilliant as the day you left them, that girl who’d written a song and in turn was presented the world at her feet.

      Someone will feed the jukebox and a voice will fill the air like it’s being poured from the sky, cascading off the smokey mirrors and wooden walls. It’s effortless, it’s beautiful, and after the first few lines, you’ll recognize it as yours. Everyone will sing on the chorus, but you’ll not have the strength to sing along. Through a strained smile, you’ll mouth the lyrics. Hearing it again now, you’ll ask yourself how could you’ve have known anything about desire at that age? Where did you feel it most when you couldn’t see him? Even so, and as improbable as it all seemed to you, it’s your words that found their way into the hearts of so many.

      And like he’d always done, the old bartender will pour the drinks and ring the big iron bell louder than he’s ever done before. He’ll tell you to take a seat and for everyone to settle down for Christ’s sake and to let you have a drink. He’ll slide a glass your way and a memory will come back to you of when you were a child, when he’d placed his scarred club of a hand above yours, shaking quarters out like big dice into your tiny palm. Go on over to the jukebox and play whatever you want, Honey, he’d say, go ahead now, don’t be afraid to walk over there and play that favorite song of yours. As soon as you pressed the big ivory button, you loved how the song would roll out over the room like thunder, drowning out all the other sounds as if some magic spell had been cast from your fingertip. You’ll remember him telling you to go ahead and play it again, hell, play it three times in a row, no one will say anything because it’s his favorite song, too. Sitting there you’ll share this memory with him, and he’ll say how could he ever forget, not in a million years.

​