there was something about her presence. it weighed heavy like a storm cloud in early march. however, it was not daunting. it was something that transcended her body and came into being, letting everyone know she was alive. even on days when she felt she wasn't.
she had a beauty that was beyond her. it was, in essence, her gift that made her beautiful at all. they called her a genius, but never to her face. it was a title she would not accept.
"the homeless man who sings for pennies in front of the liquor store - he is the real genius. i am not there yet."
she was a guitarist. i would say she played the guitar, but that would not suffice. she was moved by it. music was the ocean inside her. it was her infinitude, her conversations with God born in the physical world. the way her fingers glided across the instrument, you'd swear they were still soft and gentle. not the worn, rough hands of a low income worker, who slept on concrete floors until cold discomfort melted away into slumber. music always came back, when everyone else walked away. because of this, she gave her whole self to her song.
while playing on the corner of sacramento and university, a group of passerbyers found her trance-like, fixated in composition. they were silent. an elderly man cried. the day was rainy and gray, but the melodies complemented the streetlights softly glistening on damp streets. a subtle exquisiteness. they were moved. hearing the Creator in the heart of His creation. this wooden instrument became a vessel. and the message was God. they remained silent.
years passed, and a masterpiece was born. it was a compilation of the color saved in the pockets of her soul. she came from such a dull place. a place of dead grass, dead spirits and dead dreams. but she had survived. it was her own declaration of consciousness. and listening to it revived in the dreamer his ability to dream. something in them was brought back to life. in the end, it is beauty that awakens us. not the screams. she gave every part of herself to the listener, the fan, the observer, the admirer. she gave it all through song. through instrument. through the guitar. that vestibule of light, a part of truth she felt obligated to share. she dedicated herself to the music, the message. gave it all away until there was nothing left.
she sits on the corner now. she doesn't move often. only rocks back and forth, though the music only plays in her head. she has abandoned her guitar. left it on the steps of the tabernacle in the middle of the night. no one knows what has become of it. unworthy hands pluck at its strings with no ounce of decency. they used to call her beautiful, but now they only call her crazy. she is no longer functioning. she has gone so deep within herself, she has become lost somewhere inside. maybe she is trying to escape. maybe her screams are not meant to frighten us, only empty cries for help.
but when people pass by, they do not feel God anymore.
©2012 Faheemah Ali
