In my dream, I hear Paul’s clear voice singing perfect harmony to the Moodie’s “Land Of Make Believe” drifting across the sand to the water’s edge and beyond. He has an ear for perfect pitch, where I struggle to separate harmony line from melody.
It’s a gift.
Maybe that’s what I miss the most; the balance of what were once 5 sympathetic souls that resonated and now is diminished. I confess to being apprehensive at what might be an imbalance in the nature of things. But only slightly. I still hear and see and feel the balance that we once so easily achieved. We each settled into our respective roles like settling back into old, comfortable chairs.
Is that what we’ve become? Old and badly sprung easy-chairs that conform to the shape of its current occupant? We know where every stain, fray and tatter came from and we touch each one with fond memories. Karl tends the fire with unerring attention, banking and stoking where, and when necessary. A pyromaniac of the first order. Frank, always attentive to the contents of everyone’s glass. Quick with a fill-up but usually first to nod off, chin on chest and a gentle snore. Lee, generously offering his stash of cohibos around and finding Stumpy the only one to take his offer squinting to avoid the wisps of smoke from the blazing fire or the plume of bluish haze rising from my cigar. And me, asking to play “Comfortably Numb” just one more time, or maybe The Moodies soaring “You And Me” with Paul’s ever-present harmonies. Why is Paul always the last to succumb to the heady aroma of woodsmoke, and wafts of scotch or Dujardin VSOP and the stars above?
Then maybe off to sleep, someone thoughtfully tucking me into my sleeping bag with “Tubular Bells” echoing across the lake or bay or nearby hills, holding off sleep for just a few more precious minutes.