You will drift into the bar like a ghost taking cover from the last light of dusk. In the doorway, you’ll breathe deeply while the thickness of woodsmoke and the briny scent of thawing fields fill up your lungs. It will remind you of a place trying to rid itself of winter, of life slowly rolling over after a great sleep. All your old friends will be there—over by the pool table, on the last barstool, in the booth by the fire—just as they’d always been, just as you will soon remember them but older now with their silvery hair, arched backs, and faces ricked with misfortune. You’ll look across the room hoping your memory will sharpen as the eyes of strangers beam back at you, and in a flicker of loneliness, you’ll consider turning around and disappearing back into the twilight, but the vacant stares will turn into tender gazes, and all your old friends will call out for you not to leave. One by one they’ll gather themselves and walk over to you with the desire to pull you closer. They’ll not ask anything about your yellowing eyes or how frail you’ve gotten; instead, you’ll feel their tears stinging against your dry cheeks.       A soft voice in your ear will remind you that you are still their star, just as brilliant as the day you left them, that girl who’d written a song and in turn was presented the world at her feet.

      Someone will feed the jukebox and a voice will fill the air like it’s being poured from the sky, cascading off the smokey mirrors and wooden walls. It’s effortless, it’s beautiful, and after the first few lines, you’ll recognize it as yours. Everyone will sing on the chorus, but you’ll not have the strength to sing along. Through a strained smile, you’ll mouth the lyrics. Hearing it again now, you’ll ask yourself how could you’ve have known anything about desire at that age? Where did you feel it most when you couldn’t see him? Even so, and as improbable as it all seemed to you, it’s your words that found their way into the hearts of so many.

      And like he’d always done, the old bartender will pour the drinks and ring the big iron bell louder than he’s ever done before. He’ll tell you to take a seat and for everyone to settle down for Christ’s sake and to let you have a drink. He’ll slide a glass your way and a memory will come back to you of when you were a child, when he’d placed his scarred club of a hand above yours, shaking quarters out like big dice into your tiny palm. Go on over to the jukebox and play whatever you want, Honey, he’d say, go ahead now, don’t be afraid to walk over there and play that favorite song of yours. As soon as you pressed the big ivory button, you loved how the song would roll out over the room like thunder, drowning out all the other sounds as if some magic spell had been cast from your fingertip. You’ll remember him telling you to go ahead and play it again, hell, play it three times in a row, no one will say anything because it’s his favorite song, too. Sitting there you’ll share this memory with him, and he’ll say how could he ever forget, not in a million years.

      An old friend will come along and squeeze your shoulders, saying a few words you can’t quite make out; you’ll think you heard “just our luck,” but you’ll still nod and smile at them before they grab their drink and slip back into the room. Then the old bartender will tell you that before you came along, your father used to sit right where you’re sitting, all hump-shouldered and head down like a whipped horse. His head was down because your momma was a waitress and as beautiful as they come. But her real beauty, he’ll tell you, was how she would move about the room in a kind of slow waltz while serving the drinks and making small talk with everyone. She would do the darndest thing that I just loved, the old bartender will tell you—just as she made it back to the bar, she would do this little leap over it to the other side like she was skipping over a creek only she could see. He’ll tell you that your father had to drink doubles before he could even think of looking up at her, but once he finally did, my God, how her eyes could hold him right there all night.

      He’ll fill your glass again then look you straight in the eyes and ask you, darling, can you imagine if your daddy had never looked up?

      And then you’ll suddenly forget earlier that morning when you spent hours retching over the toilet, your body burning up, a sickness working its way through your organs like wild reeds spreading at the water’s edge. You’ll forget how it was only after finding the bottle of pills you swore off and the red pack of cigarettes you hadn’t smoked in years that you were able to find the strength to cover what seemed like an impossible distance from the back door to your truck sitting outside. You’ll forget how broken you felt having to crawl along the rocky path and how cold the stones felt on your hands and knees as you suffered your way through a layer of wet spring snow. You’ll forget how the clouds suddenly cracked open, the sunlight striking down on your back, the warmth turning the snow to slush. You’ll forget the anger that filled inside of you, how it raised you cruelly to your feet, casting you away from the truck and down the riverbank to the wooden boat. You’ll forget how you found a half-empty gas can beside the trash barrel and how you dropped the bottle of pills and the lit cigarette from your mouth inside, tossing it into the bow of the wooden boat, a boat you’ve come to despise for its demand of perfect balance, something you lost a while ago. You’ll forget how the flames followed the curve of the hull and rose into a curling peak of fire. You’ll forget kicking the burning boat into the current and turning your back to the rising flames as it drifted down river along the seams between the ice. You’ll forget how you managed to get back to the truck and how you finally got the engine to turn over and start and how you told yourself to drive for as long as you could no matter what. You’ll forget how in your rear-view mirror you watched the sky turn from stark white, to deep blue, to crimson.  

      What you’ll remember is the pale colors of your mother’s dress flashing in the stark light as she glides and turns across the bar only to stop and kiss your head as you make your way to the jukebox with those quarters squeezed tightly in your little hand.

      In remembering this, you’ll feel a kind of joy radiate through you that you’ve not known before.

      So, you’ll ask for another and the old bartender will fill your glass, and all your old friends will gather around you again like a choir. Everyone will extend their glasses out for a toast, and you’ll touch your glass to theirs and it will feel like a celebration. You’ll think this is all you need to live for now.

      And as you take the last sip of your drink, you’ll think about that wooden boat and wonder where it might have drifted off to.

You’ll imagine the pyre of flame towering into the sky and somewhere high above it will be your voice, soaring.