Hudson Valley Astrologer

A friend asked if I’d go visit another old friend in a nursing home today with him. The old friend just got put on hospice so he won’t be with us long. We showed up at the nursing home and made our way up to room 502. The friend who invited me stopped by the house for supper after driving down from Vermont. He had been up in Vermont earlier in the day to take his 95 year old father to a doctor’s appointment. My house was a good rendezvous point. Dinner was nothing special — pan fried spiced chicken, bok choy, and pearl couscous. The nursing home visit was a spontaneous idea so I wasn’t prepared to make a proper dinner… thank god we had homemade sourdough, it always dresses up the table.

Before we left he asked me to bring my guitar. My immediate response was no way because it’s been years since I’ve played. We were in our cars ready to go but I changed my mind. I ran back into the house and grabbed my Taylor, threw it in the back seat and we were off.

The facility is dated and reminded me of an old state college campus. We took the elevator, guitar in hand, and made our way down the putrid smelling hallway. Our friend was sleeping in his bed, with I.V.’s going in and a catheter going out. He was a mere shadow of his former self. But it was him. What was painfully clear is that soon enough it wouldn’t be him, and that this story was playing out over and over again up and down the hallways.

The patient’s name is Dave, and I remember the mini Stratocaster he lent me so my son might learn to play guitar. Dave was the consummate musician loving his side gigs way more than the day job. There was this time we shared the stage in front of a small crowd returning from a walk to cure diabetes. He was a rare talent back then, a diamond in the rough, but buried in a sea of obscurity. He worked the bar scene back then too, but I was sober, and a father of young children so I always passed on those gigs. Besides, I wasn’t as proficient at covers as he was. I liked playing and singing originals. So, that’s what I did in his room today. I sang an original. I asked if he’d like to see the guitar and his eyes lit up. I unbuckled the lid, swung it open and lifted her out carefully. Tuning the guitar was a bitch probably because the strings are so old. But I got it tuned and sat on the edge of his bed. The first song I ever wrote just sort of popped out and played itself, even thought I’d not played in years. I call the song Beyond the Children. He smiled this a big ass smile with eyes since the muscles in his face have lost much of their elasticity and don’t really work anymore. My buddy was so thankful that I brought the guitar. He knew! He knew his friend Dave would love seeing, and hearing the instrument he spent a lifetime learning to master. Then I let him hold it. He closed his eyes, his left hand moved up and down the neck, as his right hand held her by the curves of her waist. He cried. We all cried. There are no words for true love. But life, like a good love song comes to an end at some point.

Rest in peace Dave, your time is near. May it come quickly, with speed and grace, and with as little suffering as is humanly possible. Our country sucks at end of life matters. We can do better.

HVA

💚🍀