Harmonica

by Bonita del Rio


In the quiet of the night, he sat by his window, looking out at the rain that blurred the lines of the city. The city was no longer a fantasy hodge-podge or another place on the damned planet. Not since she had come into his life and shown him how to unlock the city's pleasures.

He smiled at the thought of her and pulled out of his pocket the instrument she bought for him. A mouth organ, she called it, or a harmonica.

Suddenly dry lips blew experimentally into the reed holder. I'm frightened of this, he realized. He could hear his friends laugh. A mighty warrior, afraid of a musical instrument. And he laughed at his own shame.

It was not the harmonica he was afraid of. It was the ghosts he could raise that he was afraid of. Ghosts of a family; a little girl who clapped with glee as her young uncle played, or of parents and sisters who blushed with modest pride as an old and respected musician complemented the boy by calling him a prodigy. Ghosts. Ones that should remain buried. Music could only bring them back.

For her, though, he would chance it. And by the dark of a moonless night, he brought the boy back by playing a childhood tune.