I wake up in the morning; the beat is going off in my head. I drive to work and think I hear the song on the radio, no; it’s still just in my head. Cooking dinner, there it is again, only this time it’s real, being practiced over and over again. For two months there has been nonstop guitar practice – Living after Midnight. His concert was coming; he needed to get every strum, every beat, and every rest perfect without even a millisecond of hesitation. He’s only twelve and he’s barely been playing for six months, of course he’s nervous. I’m his mother, when he’s filled with worry, so am I. His school work can wait, he hasn’t played in the yard in days, but still he practices. Here comes the solo. Ewwww, timing’s a little off. Who am I to judge? I couldn’t play a note if my life depended on it. Try it again, one more time. Whoa, I think he got it. He stops cold, dead in his tracks. The music continues on in the background without him.
“Did you hear that Mom? I got it!” He’s beaming from ear to ear, braces glimmering from the sunlight shining through the open window. The presence of his prominent left dimple let me know that he was going to be okay. It let me know that I had raised a confident, determined child. He hadn’t given up; he had given it his all. He felt that he was a success and that was all that mattered.
Do you think he knows that I will always be his biggest fan? Does he realize that I will be cheering him on every step of the way, no matter what song he decides to play?
As he walked on stage, I could see a smirk. He looked out in to the crowd of close to sixty people, never playing for a group so large. For a split second he went expressionless then the most serious look I had ever seen came across his face. He didn’t look like my frightened baby with the round cheeks and wide eyes; he looked like a young man who was ready to show the world his true talent.
The music began to play from the gigantic speakers behind him. Booming, swallowing the room with every note. Right on cue the gorgeous mahogany flame Jay Turser that he had wanted so desperately hit every note under my son’s command. I sat breathless, listening to every strum as if I had never heard it played before. He was phenomenal. When I finally caught my breath, it was time for the solo. Looking around the room, I could tell I was not the only person amazed by my son’s talent. Other musicians were head bobbing, nodding in agreement. Parents were nudging each other and nodding their approval. My husband, with that same adorable dimple handed down to my son, was staring in disbelief. When you ask people to tell you about their greatest accomplishments, they talk about earning advanced degrees, making lots of money, or perhaps completing some fitness feat but my greatest accomplishments are lived through my children.
As a tear streamed down my cheek, I giggled. I can’t believe I just shed a tear over a Judas Priest song.
Written in 2007 for a Memoir Writing course.