Never, Ever, Always

When the music sings, an audience will find it.

Never, Ever, Always

Never, ever, you said, honestly,
A musician you'll never be,
But, through misty eyes,
You agreed, eventually,
Blind faith, it came to be.

Never, ever, will you play here,
Yet, this band landed,
A team, with a noble dream,
Never, ever, you preached,
With a mother's love,
In emotional release.

And when it came to always,
From mom to romantic son,
She knew what was true,
A never, ever, always love,
From me, back to you.

"Yeah, you're lyrics nailed it Len," Mason said, as the van with expired tags pulled up into the cracked blacktop driveway.

"It might work better," he said, looking over Len's printed words on a yellow legal pad, "on my organ though. I'll start working out the chords

later."

The four members of the band then sat back to watch the live show.

Miranda burst through the front door. She took a broad jumper's leap on to Len. She wrapped her long, tanned arms around his neck.

"Looks like the dude's gonna' be here awhile," Jimmy said, tapping the driver, Tony, on his shoulder. "Take the rest of us home, bro."

Inside, behind tightly closed sunny-yellow curtains, Len's mother peeked out nervously.

"Oh Lord, Button," she said, confessing to her toy dog, racing outside the front door. "I can't take too much of this!" Running out across the front lawn, she nearly fell, tripping over the lawn sprinkler, before reaching the van.

Across the street, curtains parted. Nosy, peering, curious eyes watched her every move.

Ah, to hell with them, my boy is home, and that's all that I care about.

Tears of worry were now streaming down her worn, drawn face. And within seconds, Len was swept up into a Bermuda Triangle of a bear hug. He was officially caught up in the middle between Miranda and his mom.

"Your songs Len," said Miranda, shouting into his ear, "they're starting to find a home!"

"You're home son," his mother said, then, over and over, "you're home! You're home!"

Miranda then took his hands, placing them firmly around her waist. "And I have more good news. There's an agent that want to meet with you."

He pulled her even tighter, and she didn't resist.

"But first, we have to talk about some other things."

Other things?

The guys in the band have been in more than a dozen states in the last two months. She's talked to me almost every night. She knows everywhere we've played, which seems like everywhere, and to anyone who would listen.

"You look so tired," she said, cupping her thumbs behind his ears, pushing back.

"I'll let you two talk," his mom said, sensing a moment. "I'll see you back inside, son."

"This agent guy, Robbie Sims," Miranda said, "he says he's seen you guys play. He thinks that there could be a record deal out there."

"Hard to believe," said Len. "Half of the time, we left in the middle of the night. Are you sure this guy's legit?"

"He's got to be," she said confidently, searching his tired eyes, kissing his lips on a drawn face. "But, here's the thing. He knows that you've written all of the band's songs. And he only wants to talk to you. One on One."

The songs? All of those songs, some of them written in the wee-hours of the morning? In a van that has just returned after going cross-country, from Boston, to Kansas City, to Houston, and some unknown outpost bar, outside of Los Angeles?

Stories of the road? Yeah honey, this band's got a few.

"Robbie Sims," Len said, his head, with tired eyes resting on her slender shoulder, "can wait until morning."

"He can," said Miranda, cupping the back of his bushy head in her hand, "and he will."

Inside, watching from behind a slightly-parted curtain, mom had other questions.

But now, those questions, asked in blind faith, could wait until morning.

THE END























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