Let's Make Some Music

           

           Harold, head in his lap, stared out the window. Miss Kitty had insisted on cleaning his attic, and even hung up his assortment of instruments with special hooks she bought from Fiddlin’ Red’s Music store. He settled his head on his shoulders, stood up, and plucked his banjo off the wall.

            Miles, he sat on the corner table, darning a red jacket, waited for Harold to speak. Normally, Miles would be downstairs in his bookcase, taking a well-deserved nap. But Miles suspected that Harold would be bridging the gap between this reality and the next very soon, and he wanted to spend time with his ghostly friend.

            “The banjo is an excellent choice,” Miles said. “A happy instrument brought to America by the African American slaves, and eventually, designed and developed, it spread across the continent, and overseas to Europe.”

            Harold smiled. He would miss Miles and his wealth of information.

            “A happy instrument,” Harold said. “When I’m blue, I play the banjo, and it sweeps all my cares away.”

            Miles held back his tongue. He realized that Harold the headless ghost could have written beautiful songs, but his anger and denial had trapped him in this cabin, and the poetry and lyrics he had tried to compose were a reflection of a trapped soul. But now, Harold was almost free, and he would sojourn from this cabin and walk with the stars.

            “Soon,” Miles said, “you will free.”

            Harold smiled. “Well, until then, let’s make some music.”