Dreamland(84)
We settled ourselves in the rockers then, absorbing the smells and budding scenery of the late-spring evening. The air was balmy, and the stars were scattered in the sky like handfuls of loose crystal. From the small creek beyond the barn, I heard the night chorus of frogs and crickets. The moon lent the landscape a silver sheen.
“It’s beautiful here,” Morgan breathed, taking it all in. “And”—she interrupted herself with a laugh—“I was going to say it’s quiet, but it’s not. The sounds are just different than back home. Or even in Florida, for that matter.”
“It’s called living in the boondocks.”
“It’s not that bad. I was able to get an Uber in Greenville, after all, and it was a real car and everything.” She leaned her head back against the rocker. “Earlier, when I was listening to you working on the song, my thoughts kept returning to our week together. I know you’re channeling a lot of stress and worry right now about your sister and your aunt, but when you’re writing a ballad, the song needs to come from a memory of happiness or it’s not going to work. Sadness is powerful, but it has to be earned, you know? So I was thinking the first line of the song could be something like this….” She drew a deep breath, then sang the opening few bars: “There’s a place that I know, where only you and I can go…”
I instantly knew she was right. “Anything else?”
“It’s your song, not mine. But since you asked…” She grinned, arching an eyebrow. “I think the opening should be more complex, instrumentally speaking. Like orchestral, even. A big romantic sound.”
I reached for my guitar. “Since you think this should be a song about us, right?”
“Why not?” she asked. “And we should probably get going on it, since I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
“I can’t stay. I have to spend a little time with my family before I leave for Nashville next week. And there’s so much to do in Nashville. I’ve got to furnish my apartment, set up a bank account, get utilities turned on, things like that. Anyway, you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, and I’d just be a distraction.”
Though she was right, I felt a ripple of sadness at her words; I didn’t want to think about that yet. Instead, I strummed the opening chords to the song. Then, in a flash, I knew what it needed. I started over, and Morgan’s gaze leapt to mine in recognition. As soon as she sang the opening line, the following line came almost automatically. Wanting to be sure, I played the first stanza a second and third time, already feeling the song take flight.
We worked as we had in Florida, seamlessly, with an unspoken give-and-take. As I tweaked and adjusted the melody, Morgan kept adding to the lyrics, turning the ballad into one of hope and love and inevitable loss. It was she who came up with the chorus, which struck me as undeniably right:
Hold on to Dreamland
Forever, not just today
Someday Dreamland will be ours
Hold fast, don’t fall away
By the time we finished the first draft, the moon had traversed the sky and a hush had fallen over the fields. I put away my guitar and led her upstairs to the bedroom. When we made love in the darkness, I felt as though our every touch and movement were choreographed. She seemed to anticipate each breath I drew, and the sounds of her voice merged with mine in the stillness of the room. Afterward, we lay together without speaking, Morgan pressed up against me, her breaths slowing until she fell asleep.
But for me, sleep wouldn’t come. Restless, I rose from the bed and threw on a pair of jeans and a shirt, then crept downstairs, where I sat at the small kitchen table, still trying to make sense of all that had happened in the last ten days. When my thoughts turned to Morgan, my life felt complete; when I thought of Paige, the life I truly wanted felt as if it would always be out of reach. I sat with those contradictory feelings, alternately at peace and in turmoil, until the light of dawn seeped through the windows. When it was bright enough, I found some paper and a pen, and I scribbled out the lyrics that we’d written the night before.
In the truck were the bags I had yet to unpack from my trip to Florida, and I walked barefoot through grass damp with morning dew. I fished out my pair of Vans and made a trip to the grocery store for coffee, along with eggs, bread, milk, and a few other items, remembering at the last minute to grab a box of green tea. I was sipping coffee at the kitchen table when Morgan finally wandered down the stairs. When she saw me at the table, she covered her mouth.
“I’d kiss you, but I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”
“I haven’t, either.”
“Then you can’t kiss me yet, either.”
I smiled. “Would you like coffee or tea?”
“Tea would be great if you have some.”
I added water to a teapot; when it whistled, I poured the hot water into the cup and added a bag, bringing it to her at the table.
“You were up early,” she said. “Almost like you’re a farmer.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
She reached over, taking my hand. “I hate that you’re having to deal with all this.”
“Me, too.”
“Is your aunt going to be released today?”
“Probably tomorrow or the day after that.”