Meet the Jack

Gandpa Jack

 I had just ordered dismissal from work. I felt my life stopping in a certain way, my mind was getting too quiet as balls of hay were passing rolling from a side to another of inside the brain to the disquieting sound of silence. That morning I got up as usual, mid afternoon and I´ve decided that silence was driving me crazy. I´ve decided I would get myself rid of the deaf dust housed in my temples. I wanted a guitar. I had money and creativity was dying little by little, so that seemed the most clever thing to do.

  I put on a ordinary clothes and went out stepping at all the instrument stores I´d find in my path. They showed me guitars, they talked about the wood, the fabrication, the brand… But the balls of hay were still rolling.

  I was tired.

  I stopped at a store.

  There were old guitars.

  Would you have a blues guitar? I asked.

  Grandpa Jack came down the stairs. He was the type of guy who didn´t attract women in a long time. Striped, green and yellow flower stamps would cover his body. It was like time had passed by and he hadn´t come to realize that.

  A few scratches and scars here and there.

  Marks of age.

  And I believed I´d die in silence. He sang.

  I shook his hand.

  I heard the sound of the trails.

  Grandpa Jack smelled like aged wood and Whisky. He sang me some notes among a sharp Mississippi accent .

  Close ya eyes. Mumbled the old man.

  The sun would go down the horizon, orange and warm above the huge fields of cotton flowers. The dry and reddish trails of the train would parboil distorting the ground clay. Grandpa Jack would chew tobacco humming sad notes while lulling the young body to a rocking chair.

  I see the temple dust going away along with the wing, giving room to the hoarsely humming of the old Jack.

  Oh It is good to be back. He sings.

  It´s been time I didn´t sing ta anybody.

  Music builds train trails

  From where I come from,

  The ion mumbles and moans

  To the crying souls seeking their freedom

  Where the house of the rising sun

  Awaits always welcoming, hopeful

  So close we rise to run

  To sing our stories, so wonderful

  With no theory no prose

  To laugh

  To cry

  And to finally remind

  There´s no barriers nor chains

  Only hope remains

  And once again

  Silence is silent to the numbing song

  To be heard, to be loved

  To the voice I thought would die alone

  Once again I open my eyes, I´m back at the store. Grandpa Jack is sitting on my lap, his wood smells like good old whisky, and his voice quiets for a moment. However I smile knowing every time I want I can go back to the House of the rising sun where his voice remains eternal.  

By Camille Hughes