The Songwriter
Friends relaxed around the campfire sipping beer. Graham hummed, quietly strummed his guitar, and from time to time jotted in a notebook at his side.
Rick’s knee jigged. “We should try Bass Lake in the morning.” He stood and threw another log on the fire. Sparks flew up. He turned to Graham. “You’re quiet tonight, buddy.”
Graham smiled.
Rick cocked his head. “What are you doing?”
“Mmmm…just working on a song.”
“Oh, come on! Out with it!” Rick leaned forward. “What’s it about?”
“Just…well…that when there’s a disagreement both sides hurt.”
“You mean like between me and your brother?” Rick’s jaw clenched. “He totally betrayed me! You know that!”
Words flew from Rick’s mouth, a great onslaught, zinging, piercing, penetrating as arrows. Shocked, Graham stared, and grimaced as he shielded his mind from the vicious accusations that lacerated his being. Blood drained from his face as he struggled to maintain equilibrium during the barrage of words hitting home like automatic machine gun shots.
Flight reflex propelled Graham’s legs to march him away into the bush. His mind was a blur of pain. Numbed, he could not even remember what Rick had said.
Graham kicked a fallen branch and launched it into the brush. “I’m such a coward,” he accused himself. He took one deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair, then turned, slowed his pace and willed himself to stroll back to the campfire. Rick glared, the others darted sidelong glances, but Graham sat, legs stretched out, hands caressing his guitar, said nothing and gazed into the flames. The friends commented on the night, the fishing, the stars.
Let it be. I said what I said and it is God’s truth. Both sides hurt.
But that night, Graham squirmed in his sleeping bag. He recalled Rick’s words. They tortured him. “Pathetic. Pushover.
Pansy. Wuss.”
Rick’s a real man. He stands up for right, condemns evil. He’s not afraid of people. He stands his ground. Yes! Rick rightly condemns me. I didn’t take his or my brother’s side in this argument.
Flashlight in hand, Graham crept like a worm from the tent to the river. Cool water ran deep and dark under willows cascading down the bank, trailing in the current.
Why do I make people feel bad? I try to get along with everyone, see things from their point of view, be kind and helpful. Why does life hurt? God! Why am I here?
Leaning forward, he scooped cold water into his hands and splashed it over his face. He ripped off his clothes, dove into the river and swam hard and fast. He fought against the current with powerful strokes but the torrent carried him far downstream. He grabbed at an overhanging branch, scrabbled up a muddy bank, and scrambled back through briars, thistles and sagebrush along the shoreline. Cold, wet, dirty, and bleeding from scratches, he leant against a tree, panting.
Do I have the courage to stand for what is right? Yes! God help me! The argument is theirs, not mine. In time this will unravel. I pray I will still have a friend and a brother at the end – but if not…
His laughter rose up into the starry heavens, “God! This feels good!”
He grabbed his clothes, crawled back into his sleeping bag and lay awake until the words for his new song fell into place.
by Andrea Kidd
