First Love

His eyes are closed; his pink tongue sticking out in concentration. His body rocks to the rythmn of his guitar. His fingers dash along the neck of his instrument; rapidly changing chords as he plucks out his tune. Random words are muttered as he tries to figure out what words belong to this new melody. Finally, he smiles, this stanza fits. He goes on from there. New lyrics keep pouring out until another one fits; then another, and another. After several minutes, he has his first verse.

I yawn as I watch him in his Sunday clothes. His hair neatly combed and his tie in a double winsor knot. He stands and his body begins to move to his new song. He opens his eyes, and sees me drifting off to sleep. Smiling to himself he settles down and kneels next to the couch. Kissing my hand softly he asks, "Are you getting tired, hon?" I smile sleepily and yawn once again. "Here," he says softly, "I'll sing you to sleep." A new tune floats out of the guitar box; our song. The one he wrote for me. My eyes close gently as I drifted off to sleep to my lullaby.


*written February 2004, Twelfth Grade Creative Writing. Remembered today.