And so it was that the music left me
and I could sing no more.

Nor speak.
Nor smile.
Nor sense
the warmth of tender touch
the color of autumn leaves
the taste of refreshing drink
the sound of morning songbirds
the smell of grass in summer.

     Two years it was before my eyes lit up
with momentary spark
when he sang to me.

     Mariachi man in the Mex-Mex grill
didn’t need words to see
what it meant to me.

     Saturday nights I entered silently
but left with life breathed in
through Tequila tunes.

Strange – a sad song I couldn’t understand
healed me like nothing else.

Sense and
smile and
speech and
song returned slowly over
seasons that stretched into years.
Steadfast singer of my soul
strummed pain of my life away,
eased me back to sanity.

     He plays for others now who need his song,
his sense of style, his smile,
words that soothe the soul.

     Inside my singing heart his song plays on.
In my memory, his face
has become as yours.

     And on Saturday nights, now spent alone,
you look into my eyes,
sing me back to life.