Spanish Guitar-Man

Sitting on a bench between the two undergrad. library buildings, the sun is warm enough to be comfortable and the bees haven't arrived yet to pester. The birds are singing a cacophony of melodies and a man is playing Spanish guitar. Because the lawn mowers are humming the guitar is muted. I wish I could turn up the volume, and I wish I could ask this man to come everyday at this time and play, while I write. 

I shed my layers as the sun brings my winter-pale skin from hiding. A breeze kicks up and for a moment I am the heroine in a movie, the wind blowing the hair from my face as the camera closes in on pensive eyes. The guitar-man plays on. The sound of lawn mowers cut through the day, and the unique blended smell of cut-grass and gasoline brings memories of tire swings and climbing trees, cartwheels in the yard and bicycle trips to the swimming pool; the strong smell of chlorine, eating candy from the snack stand, the heat of the sun making it too hot to sit on the wooden picnic benches. 

The campus tower bell sounds on the half-hour, soon I will have to leave the wonder of the Spanish guitar, and singing birds, and warm sun for the drudgery of the basement, a cold cubicle and computer screen. 

I wonder how often guitar-man comes here. He doesn't seem to be busking, simply enjoying the beauty of this day, spilling his music out like he cannot keep it in or be silenced anymore. Like the birds that sing, or my skin soaking at last in sun-drenched happiness. 

Campus is quiet now-students gone home, some returning weeks from now, some going out in the triumph of blue robes and square caps, to move on into the world that I pray holds promise for them.

I love the summer quiet of campus. There is room, space to stretch out a little and breathe. There are nooks and crannies to hide in and write uninterrupted, and there are guitar-men playing Spanish tunes drifting on the breeze to a writer's ear, inspiring ink to spill onto the page in words, like notes spilling into the air as we each sing our song-make our own music. Not twenty yards is all that separates his song from mine. We both take to our instruments on this day expressing gratitude for its beauty. His stringed notes, my images in words. 
Can we two neither help nor control the art that begs escape? It seems not. As I cannot stop my pen no more than he can stop his plucking of the strings. Does he know what a pair we are making right now? Unknowingly bound together for just these moments? I must go and leave guitar-man to his melody. He plays me out across the paving stones and away, I leave with the hope that he will be here another day and I can write again, words set to the music of Spanish guitar.
(Photo taken by Kelly Kirchhoefer)