In a family way

A more beautiful sight you will never see than the countenance of a woman with child.

I was reminded of that last nugget last night when I spotted it on the face of somebody with whom I've spent the majority of my Sunday nights for the last two and one-half years. I speak of course of Robinella and, for once, I will refrain from waxing poetically about her and her music. You have heard it before. I am not sure I have much left to say.

But I noticed her radiant glow and marveled for the first time in awhile about what that must mean. I don't claim to know. I will, of course, never know. All I do know is it is beautiful.

Selfishly speaking I will miss my favorite singer these next few weeks. Depending on to whom you listen, she plans to take off for a few weeks or a few months. Whatever the case I wish her only the best.

Last night she sat on a stool and sang like her name, flying high in the air, full of the free spirit that makes her so endearing. I asked to hear my song; I needed to hear it once again to tide me over. And she sang it, not as picture perfect as on my birthday, but filled with that familiar passion that makes "Teardrops" the prettiest thing I've ever heard.

And as I sat at my favorite spot in the room, I smiled again at the healing power of music, nothing like it in the world, and felt thankful, blessed even. For five bucks these past few years she's let loose this intangible magnetic force, unpretentious, sincere, for all those who would listen. I don't mean those who casually listen, often over the irritating chatter that drives me batty, but those rare souls who are moved by the music, seared in the soul, mesmerized by the moment.

Hundreds of times this has happened; hundreds of times I've been touched. But, on a bitterly cold January evening years ago, she slipped into that part of my heart that nobody is allowed to enter, when I wasn't looking, when I was distracted by cigarette smoke from the bar (yes, you could smoke then), by the eyes of a young female server and by the stark, almost photogenic, beauty of my companion for the night. Through all this she managed to pluck those heartstrings with a sad song that would make George Jones green with envy. This is one of those ditties that conditions your life, alters your existence in the universe, makes you glad for the trip you've just taken to the stars. And, after the romance fades, the song lives, to be played later when you have purpose, and otherwise stored away in that locked corner of your soul in which you and someone you trust hold the key.

This illusion of continuity has been comforting. Me in my favorite spot, Mike nearby wearing his Hawaiian shirt, Robin and the boys up on the stage, that weird mix of aging Baby Boomers. college kids and n'er do wells who show up down there.

To say I will miss it would be an understatement, for these people, some of which I like, others I'd just as soon take a long jump into the Tennessee, have become old friends.

This long, hot summer, I will make my plans, prepare to break away, see just what's involved in living a dream. And, whether I end up in Oxford, Old Miss, Auburn, North Carolina, or right back over the Hill, I will remember one thing.

A woman about to birth her child looks as beautiful as any Hollywood movie star. Don't ask for proof.

You should'a been there on June 7, 2009, to see the evidence.