Just Gone on Ahead

A Ghostwriter of Song

“The human voice is directly related to our soul. When we release our voice, we expose a little bit of our soul to the Universe, whether speaking or singing. That’s why it can be so nerve-wracking.”

Maggie Delaney-Potthoff
from
Maggie’s Method ™

Hi Friend,

Three months after Henry died, Father’s Day rolled in. Sims took himself up to our camp in the beautiful woods of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. He’d camp for a few nights and be home on Sunday, in time to have a celebratory backyard cook-out with Emmett, our second son, and Henry’s best friend.

I stayed home and tackled the down-and-dirty task of scrubbing down and opening up the back screen porch for Summer.

Harry Nilsson was keeping me company on my iPod.

“Everybody’s talkin’ at me. I don’t hear a word they’re sayin’. Only the echoes of my mind….”

I sang along.

Melancholy music.

He was enviably so clever and creative in his writing.

“Imagine writing lyrics so poignant,” I thought.

The cell phone in my pocket beeped and startled me.

I was tickled to see a message was coming through from Sims. Our WIFI is 99% spotty in the North Woods. This was a lucky break. It was the first time we had been away from each other since Henry’s death, and I was lonely.

One startling solo text appeared:

“I was born in Boston, in March of ’85.”

I slumped to the left and stood frozen. The frame of a big screen window bore my weight, and my left shoulder painfully crushed into the window frame.

“I’m goin’ where the sun keeps shinin’, through the pourin’ rain,” Harry sang. His voice, pining for past times, echoed the yearning in my heart.

My feet moved, and I followed them into the family room. I tip-toed over our rolled-up rattan rugs and around a wobbly wrought iron porch lamp and a wicker rocker.

I sank into our green comfy chair, tossed the pillow onto the floor, slouched forward, and continued to read the next text.

"Ponder over motion, every moment is alive.

I’ve always been a trav’ler, on the road, and in my head.

Now I’m not gone forever, I’ve just gone on ahead.”

Here, I choked, and the floodgates opened.

“I’ve just gone on ahead,

You know I had to go.

Always felt, and never said, we all can see the show.

I’m still your number one and will be waiting at the gate.

So saddle up, and do the do, and never complicate.”

My eyelids squeezed open and closed rapidly as they fluttered back heavy, hot tears of pain, which blurred my vision.

“See me in the blue smoke.

Feel me in your dreams.

Hear me the bird’s song.

I’ll help you find your keys.

Free, in the woodsmoke,

In the beating of your heart.

Here, right beside you,

We never are apart.

Like a road less traveled, I travel all alone.

We’re all on the same path, we’re all just going home.

Now there’s no going backward,

There’s no yearning for instead.

Now I’m not gone forever, I’ve just gone on ahead.”

My heart raced.

My voice cracked.

“Call Sims”, I commanded SIRI.

Sims answered.

“That poem is so beautiful,” I said.

“Yeah, it wrote itself. Wellllll, Henry wrote it,” Sims said. His voice sounded tired and soft.

A shimmering second of silence pursued.

“Oh ya?” I asked. “Like how do you mean?”

“I made a fire last night and sat down to watch the blue smoke. I just love watching the smoke, ya know, and seeing different things in it and Henry and I used to watch and see different things. And I picked up my writing book and put the pen to it and the song started coming through the pen. Just moving across the page. Henry and I wrote it together.”

His words washed over me in a ripple of confusion. My heart pulsed quickly as I pushed myself to grasp this.

I found no words to contribute. Sims also remained silent and I was numbed.

Sims rolled in the next day in time for Father’s Day Sunday brunch with the entire song intact. Chord structure, arrangement, and harmony lines.

We gathered around the piano Tuesday morning at our weekly rehearsal.

We made the verses swing.

We made the chorus change time signatures.

And we voted unanimously for Henry’s distortion pedal to be used on the chorus.

Sims and I sang the harmonies equally, meaning there was no lead, we were together.

Singing the lyric, “We never are apart” always comes from the deepest place in my heart and soul. A tremendously luscious sensation.

On Friday, September 9, 2015, we re-entered the barn where we had held Henry’s farewell. Almost six months to the day. Our friends were concerned as to how the re-entry would be for us, but our annual Midwest Gypsy Swing Fest was going to happen, and the show must go on.

We were O.K.

Tender, yes, but O.K.

Our festival fans streamed slowly up the gravel driveway, anxious to find parking and were already having a good time.

The barn was packed with love, and my heart was bursting as we took the stage.

We welcomed everyone, thanked our hosts, and then:

Boom, we hit it hard with massive tones from the bass and mandolin.

I felt Henry right there with us in the very first lyric,

“ Now is nothing like it was…still feels like a dream…”

As I played percussion, I allowed my thoughts to drift to brief memories of when we stood on that stage around his casket.

I felt his pride in us in this moment, and his encouragement in a natural way, just like he was here with us in the physical. Like days of old.

I closed my eyes and let the rhythm move me and the melody take me away.

The sweetness and groundedness I feel when I play music embraces me, and no harm could ever come to me here, in this sacred place.

Our fifty- minute set was coming to a close.

Surrounded by the sound of applause, Sims reached out with the toe of his red “Chuckies” to get Henry’s distortion pedal exactly where he wanted it.

“ Just Gone on Ahead” would be our final song for the night and would not be performed without an introduction.

I shared with the audience that our festival now supports the “Henry Mac Fund”.

“The fund was created in honor of our son, Henry who passed away in March.” I explained. “Henry was a fine musician and awards will be given annually to support upcoming, young musicians.”

The words slightly fumbled as thy came out of my mouth as I exposed a little bit of my soul to the Universe.

I could feel grief coming around the corner, but I must go fisticuffs with it.

I gripped the mic stand for support and with an exhale, I turned to Sims and asked him to introduce our last song.

He told the story of the campfire, notebook, and the pen that moved.

He gave credit to Henry, the co-composer.

The crowd was tuned in, hanging onto every word.

And then the three of us, a power trio, prepared ourselves mentally in a unified breath and began.

A nice, spacious intro of syncopated chords, gave the audience a chance to relax their brows knitted in curiosity and suspicion.

“I was born in Boston…….”

As the song builds, our vibrations rise.

The listeners are glazed.

Stares and tears are coming toward us.

“We Never Are Apaaaaaaaaart.”

I sustain the last guttural and ethereal note for sixteen bars, as the distortion wails underneath me.

We finish.

The barn is silent, then exhales.

They stand up out of their seats and jump up off of their bails of hay, and applaud, cheer, whistle, whoop, and howl. They wipe their faces, smile, and breathe.

We take two deep, long, bows, and exit.

To stand in front of a group of strangers and tell a story of your son, the ghostwriter, felt, at first, quite risk-taking. But as time has passed, and our connections and encounters with Henry have deepened our resolve with the Universe, we speak of the song with ease.

We let it come through us and flow out onto the audience over and over again.

And why not?

“We’re all on the same path, we’re all just goin’ home.”