OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

one-hundred-one.

It was sheer joy to simply see him touching a guitar. Cradling it the way he had cradled Gracie as a newborn. Working out the kinks of a note and refining it so that it thrummed perfectly, hanging in the air with a cursory echo.

It was more than Reagan could have ever asked for.

The nightmare of losing Kurt had conjured up enough pain to last her a lifetime. The only thing harder than saying goodbye to him had been watching Dave forget so easily who he was.

He was still like the Dave she knew -- in some ways. After the first few painful weeks following Kurt's death, some of his natural charm had gradually resurfaced. He'd cracked jokes to her in the kitchen while they'd eaten breakfast, mimicked silly cartoon voices for Gracie, and looked at them both with so much love in his eyes that Reagan had to wonder how one human body could contain that much adoration.

To any outsider, Dave was fine. He was going through the motions, following the grieving process one step at a time with a wan smile on his face. He called his mother. He answered the phone and responded to Nirvana business when necessary. He cooked dinner. He loved his wife and daughter without a hint of hesitation. 

But Reagan knew all about the scary darkness underneath his responsible exterior. She had watched, fighting back sobs, as he had lugged any stray instrument lying around their house into the forgotten music room. She hadn't said a word as a fine sheen of sweat had dampened his forehead with every guitar, piece of a drum set, pedal and amplifier that he'd dragged into the room and shut away.

She had tried to be understanding. If anything, Reagan had agreed at that time with Dave's decision to cloak their collection of musical instruments in dust. 

Then he had stopped listening to music. 

He hadn't truly stopped, but Reagan didn't miss it whenever he dialed down the volume to a favorite song of his in the car. It didn't go unnoticed when he shut off the stereo in their house when she happened to turn it on. The only form of music that he seemed to truly take pleasure in were the songs he continued to sing to Gracie at night. 

But the final straw had arrived when Reagan had caught Dave taking out the trash one day. She had left their bedroom and found him halfway out the front door, his hand gripping a bulging Hefty bag that was straining against a series of sharp corners poking out of its plastic.

"What are you doing?" Reagan had demanded.

"Taking out the trash?" Dave had replied, confused.

That was when Reagan had snatched the garbage bag away from him, ripping open the top to find a collection of records amongst the trash. She had broken down.

"Why are you throwing these out?" she'd whispered shrilly, tears escaping her eyes as she'd shaken the bag at him. 

Dave had blinked. "The . . . records?"

"Yes!" Reagan had hissed back. "These are your records, Dave. Your favorites! What the hell are you doing?" 

Something in her voice had snapped him into awareness. Realizing what he'd done, Dave had gotten down on his knees and pulled out each individual record that he'd stuffed into the bag. Some of them he'd had to wipe clean of half-eaten food, but the mortified look in his eyes had assured Reagan that he'd regretted it. 

It had been a moment of madness -- so unlike him that Reagan had almost thrown up, wondering if the person she loved had thoroughly and forever changed. 

That had been the peak of his anguish. After that, Dave had mellowed considerably, but Reagan still hadn't seen him play. He had refused to give an explanation for it. To him, the reason was as plain as day.