Lonely People

An Offer You Can't Refuse

The sounds of guitars and teenage voices rang through the house. Paul had invited John over for the time that Dad and Michael were away at the cinema. During that time they wrote music like they always did ever since they first met each other. The two bonded over their mutual love for music, and their unspoken infatuation with poetry. 

"That doesn't even rhyme," John pointed out.

Paul frowned, "It doesn't always have to rhyme."

"It does, it makes it sound better."

"Prose doesn't rhyme," I pointed out.

Both boys glanced at me. They were sitting on the floor of the living room, cross-legged with their guitars in their laps. I sat on the couch watching them. For a little while, they had forgotten I was there. It was obvious by the puzzled looks on their faces.

"You can't make music in prose," John said.

I learned quickly that John Lennon was a stubborn fellow, but kind all the same, once you got past the first few abrasive layers. He had an amazing sense of humor that often made adults lecture him. From the first minute I met him, I've always admired John Lennon. 

I shrugged, "You could always try something new, maybe it'll be interesting."

"Doubtfully."

"We can try it," Paul said.

John huffed, but went along with it. They scribbled a few words onto the paper. I watched them do so. As Paul wrote, John took to strumming a few chords. They hummed the same tune absentmindedly as if they could hear the music playing in each other's minds. 

"This needs something more than guitars," Paul thought out loud.

John nodded, "But what? Drums?"

"Something else."

"Ah!" John exclaimed, "It needs a piano."

Paul glanced up at him. For a moment, they seemed to have a silent conversation. Their song required two guitars, and they both had to play one. That left nobody at the piano.

"Didn't you say you could play piano, Amelia?" John asked.

I nodded without bothering to look up from my book, "Have since I was four."

"She can do it," Paul smiled, "We have one in the front hall."

Paul began to gather the music as John stood with his guitar. They both hurried into the front hall, completely forgetting me in the living room. I watched them go, confusion masking my face.

"Come on, Lia," Paul poked his head around the wall, "We need you to play with us."

I stood and went to him, "Do you have the chords?"

"Here."

John shoved a piece of paper into my hands. It had sloppily written chords on it along with unreadable lyrics. I was able to understand it enough to play the chords at least.

I sat down at the piano and set the paper on the stand. John and Paul stood on either side of me, looking over my shoulder at the sheet. As I raised my hands, they began to play.

The sounds of our symphony rang through the house. Paul and John sang along, strumming their guitars and tapping their feet. My fingers danced across the black and white keys and my foot kept in tune with the beat.

Playing music made me feel like flying through a sky made of lovely memories. The notes carried me higher, and the lyrics sent me soaring. They looped around me like a comforting hug and told me that everything will be alright.