To the Song “Wildfire” by Micheal Martin Murphy

Steve suggested you, ripping a blank piece of paper out of his small spiral notebook, pulling out his cords stamp and stamping out enough blocks for the first verse and the chorus. He drew the dots on the lines where my fingers would go. “You’ll like this one.”

MMM looked a lot like Steve

Steve had 1978-feathered hair. He gave me guitar lessons in the back of the music store, in a room with beige carpet tacked to the walls. Even then, I wondered what he thought his job was exactly. Teach me a few cords? The songs? Work just enough to keep me interested by giving me the cool of songs of the day, but not enough to actually think about it?

Because what did he expect? That I would take you home and practice? Develop calluses on my finger tips? Play along with the radio? Learn variations on the strum? Would I make the leap from strumming to picking by myself?

Would I sing? I tried. I loved you. When I heard you on the radio, I’d raise the volume and belt it out. I’m 12 and my awkwardness is outgrowing every other part of me.

I wanted to be the woman he sang about. Coming down from Yellow Mountain. A mountain in Nebraska, which makes it all the more mythical. A whirlwind by my side. I pictured some cartoonish tornado magically hovering around me, carelessly whipping at branches and tumbleweeds.

But I also wanted to be the singer: the man longing for her, listening for six long nights to a hoot owl. I was sure a hoot owl sang the saddest of all bird songs, sadder than the mourning dove. I wanted to know she was coming for me, get these hard times out of our minds.

The next Tuesday, when it was time for my lesson, I hid under my bed. I had practiced, but I would never play that for Steve. Am I a girl or a boy? What if I want to be both? What if I feel like both? What if it’s all just longing from here on out? Forever. I’m singing to myself, staring at the underside of mattress. I’m terrified and thrilled. Burning.