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The Heart of Music

A man sits, playing a guitar in room. A guitar case open at his feet.

The words "my music man is a work of art" keeps rolling through my mind as I watch him play. Since the very first living room concert one Sunday afternoon during the Pandemic, I've cherished these private concerts.


He fills my ears with covers of those '80's and '90's artists we both love—Paul Westerberg, Neutral Milk Hotel to name a few. Still, my favorites by far are his songs. Those he wrote long ago in his twenties and especially those he's writing now.


This man, of mine, is talented.


From him I've learned to step out of my comfort zone and take chances. Now he's performing Jane's Addiction. Music is the way to my heart. He knows this. I think he's known this from the very beginning.


In this music man, I have found my person. The person I was meant to know. How lucky we are—he and I—to have found the other half of ourselves after living so much of our lives separately. We see each other for who we are. Together we've experienced good and bad days. Even in those moments of adversity, we've grown closer.


This.


Right here in this room—where he sits strumming his guitar and singing with his raspy tenor that meets those high notes with finesse—is where I'm meant to be. Nothing else have I known with such certainty.


Man plays guitar.

I sit and listen to this offering of my music man and fall.


Until next time,



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About the Author

Joie Lesin, Author of Speculative Fiction

Minnesota-based author, Joie Lesin is a life-long fiction writer and the author of The Passenger. She has long been fascinated by anything otherworldly including ghosts. She loves to write a good ghost story—especially when it includes a touch of romance.

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