Rose looked up from her writing. It seemed like forever since she had heard her song. Just now, she couldn't remember the words. She hadn't seen the score in so long. Opening her guitar case, Rose laid eyes on her treasure. For the past few days she had resisted the temptation of opening the case, but just now, she couldn't see why she had kept herself away. Cradling it in her arms as if it were about to break, she tried to pluck out the melody. It seemed far away, distant. Bits of thought raced through her head. Even now she couldn't get over the fact that Jerry once had his hands right where hers were now.

Slipping off into a daydream, Rose recalled her thirteenth birthday. Until then, she had been playing on a broken down "driftwood" guitar in her Uncle John's Band. She remembered the flowers that she had braided into her hair that day. When the band gave her the guitar, she nearly died of ecstasy. Since that day, she never let her guitar out of sight for more than a few days. That beautiful folk guitar, still as beautiful as it was that day . . .


"Rose!" I turned around to see Phil, my best friend. As usual, Phil was happily running around like a crazed lunatic sporting the deranged tie-dyed chef's hat I had made him for his birthday. I love to make things for him hats, shirts. I even made him the braided strip of cloth that held his father's pocket watch around his neck.

"Hey now! Where ya been my Sugar Magnolia? I need help with these burritos! Here, taste this."

"Mm, tastes great, needs pepper, but now I must away."

"Hey, you promised to help me. Sesh me some of that basil will ya?"

" Here, I'll be back in a couple of hours. Besides, you don't need me to tell you that you're the greatest cook in the world."

"But . . . "

"You're forgetting what today is. My destiny awaits, I must jam with the Dead."

"Then ramble on Rose, and drop by my place later I have something for you."

Phil kissed my cheek and wished me well.

After a few more greetings and three samples of great herbal cooking, I made it to the tumbledown shack that currently housed the Grateful Dead. Clutching my guitar case (music safely tucked inside) I knocked on the door.