Love and a Fiddler (“Country” 15)

Hindsight is a marvelous gift. Used with care, it can be tender and accepting, and rich with forgiveness. And it’s been one of those weeks for me, with word of the death of a man I once loved. Briefly perhaps, but with full intent, and great despair when it fell apart.

Backstory: I’d taken a heart-deep wound from someone else who’d deliberately humiliated and betrayed me, and I felt lost and lonely. And scared. Grieving over a glass of wine with a not-very-close girlfriend, I said I already knew the available guys remaining in my neighborhood, along with their core personalities, and there was nothing around for me. I didn’t know what, or who, to do next.

Oddly enough, a man had said the same thing to her, the week before. More than a man — a fiddler.

Now, unless you are passionate about music, that last comment may not make a lot of sense. Without going into a lot of detail, let me just say I’d wedded or bedded (or both) four guitar players and two banjo lovers. (Back in the 1970s, remember? Before AIDS was a thing for the hetero world, and after birth control?) I treasured the delight of hearing music from someone’s hands and throat, and I rejoiced when watching confident fingers on the strings.

So a fiddler raised my hopes.