I lie on the couch listening to my husband of nearly three decades playing the guitar. I watch his fingers light upon the strings, his eyes closed, his face alive with emotions set free through each note. I fell in love with the music a long time ago.
I was so sad when it ceased. I had worried that childrearing, mortgage and bill paying, endless hours of money-earning and in-laws intruding had killed it.
Then, one day, my son started playing the guitar, picking up songs by ear that my husband had played once upon a time.
And then, my husband started teaching him. Their heads bent together, my son watching his father, my husband watching his son. No arguments or outbursts. No impatience or anger. Music filled my home once again and I watched as son and father found a new harmony together. My heart was full.
And then there’s the music.
I lie on the couch listening as he plays the same song over and over again, this man of mine. Milonga. A tango. My heart begins to melt filling my eyes with tears, as I hope we share this tango long after he plays the last note.