The sad fact about Mr. Bailey

If there’s one word to describe Mr. Bailey it’d be long. Long face, long legs, long fingers, long life.

His fingers however he used to stretch across the fretboard of his guitar and make it cry, in the late summer evenings as he sat on his balcony.

The sound of Mr. Bailey’s tunes was freeing for those who felt them. Admiring the sounds that floated by from their neighbour. The lovers that remained in the fields found it a suitable soundtrack for their evenings. So, no one ever complained about Mr. Bailey and his guitar. No matter how long his solos played. Some days they accompanied the sun from its descent to its rise. Other days it stopped abrupt as though the guitar had run out of breath. Without a word Mr. Bailey would pack it up and return to his room. Walking through his house to spend another long and lonely day.

No one could remember the exactly when it was Mr. Bailey had started to play his guitar for the world to hear, and not just the walls of his house. But it had quickly become expected of him.

In fact, others had even started to join him, whenever they felt inspired to do so. Dancing and waving as they passed his house, or playing accompanying pieces from their own balcony. Mr. Bailey never said anything about it. He’d be too in his own head to even take notice of the notes that floated back towards him. So, the jazz was never completed entirely but only half way. Since Mr. Bailey didn’t reach out to compliment the notes that had been thrown to him by his neighbours.

Funnily enough Mr. Bailey never like the guitar. He didn’t enjoy the feel of the strings, and he found that songs were tedious to learn. As a kid he felt imprisoned by his guitar. Yet, it disturbed him when the strings snapped, and his guitar became useless. He felt lost, stuck, he felt every essence of his loneliness. More importantly, he felt the snap of a promise he had made as it broke.

It had been a month and Mr. Bailey could not find it in himself to repair what had been broken, he wasn’t entirely sure if he could. Because although Mr. Bailey had never liked the guitar, Sweet Edna had.

She had loved the sound of the tunes accompanying a sunset. She had enjoyed the sound of Mr. Bailey humming to himself as he learnt something new. She had loved the look of concentration on his face as he played. She had loved to seem him in his element. As she passed, Mr. Bailey looked at his guitar, plucked at the strings and decided each day he’d do what he could, to accompany Sweet Edna throughout her journey in heaven. Continuing to outstretch his heart to hers.

Some knocked at his door, curious of why he was no longer playing. Hoping that he would start again soon. Mr. Bailey, however, had let his guitar speak for him for so long he had forgotten how to speak without his notes.

Only did the moon ever get to hear his persistent cries of Edna, asking if she understood. Wanting the moon to give him an answer, that it never could.

Mr. Bailey felt a prisoner of uncertainty.

But the sad fact about Mr. Bailey is that Sweet Edna wasn’t prepared to give him forgiveness for something that wasn’t expected of him.

Mr. Bailey had already stretched his heart so thin to join it with hers whilst they both still could.

These last few pieces she meant for him to hold onto, to keep him sane. To allow himself to join with others, compliment his experiences with theirs. Creating a new melody to share with other souls.

To finally sit back and receive the love Edna continued to send him through others, after a long life of giving what he had.

– Mahalia Otshudy