What Should Have Been

Every Saturday morning I think of you. I remember waking up to the stereo, way out in the living room, playing Saturday morning music. Randy van Warmer, Paul McCartney & Wings, or Andrew Gold. I confess, as a blues and pop artist, I thought some of this music was pretty lame, but I enjoyed waking up to it nonetheless. It was you. It was your feelings about the vision of our goals. It was always you that got me out of bed in the morning.

I'd stumble out to the kitchen to get my morning cup of tea or coffee, depending on the extent of my revelries the night before. The kitchen window was open, the curtains blowing in the breeze. Outside, you sat cross-legged on the patio, squeezing fresh orange juice from fruit you'd plucked from our trees.

Later in the day, when I bugged you while you baked something tasty, you'd say, "Oh, go write a song!" and I'd go into the living room to my piano and do just that. If it was a particularly good song, you'd come sit beside me to listen, and then give me a hug. If the wasn't so great, you'd fill the cookie jar on my piano with the bounty of your baking, and tell me my song might need a little more work.

You never criticized anything I wrote. Never. Every endeavor was rewarded, either with a hug, or a cookie, but you never criticized my music, or me.

Regardless of how unfamous I was, you were my rock star queen, the Linda to my Paul, my muse, my biggest fan, and my shrink. People sometimes asked if we were a couple, and we'd laugh, saying no, just friends. But we were a couple. Except for sex, we were the most married couple I've ever been part of. But you were straight and I was confused. "No," we said, laughing. "We're just soulmates."

And then we went through what I call, "Let It Be". The heartlessness of music law and the confusion of new romantic partners split us apart. And so we remained for three decades. You married, I got over being confused, you gave birth to babies, and I lost my dreams to another's. At last, we met again, older, a lot wiser, and missing each other.

For the first time in 30 years we felt it again--that connection we shared through music, the joy and laughter of being together again. We picked up our dream and began to work together again. But then you died, unexpectedly. Now, I'm left with what could have been--what should have been. If I'd been a boy, we would have been high school sweethearts. We would have married, and built a life around my music, your painting, and our children.

Instead, I'm alone now, but I know that when I pass over you'll be the first to greet me. And in our next life, we'll get it right. We damned well deserve it.