tribute to emily teague

she sat on the steps and looked at the sky. It was still above her as she gently rested her fingertips in the cold strings of her guitar. Her hair hung in front of her eyes as she played, masking her face from the familiar stories she told with each note she sang.

The air was old and soft, and smelt of the city that she had grown up in. The music seemed to spill out of her palms each time she strummed a chord, the sound barely audible and lingering in the warm evening air. Each word spoken held its purpose and read like a poem drifting slowly around her small form nestling in the darkness of the evening.

She never thought when she sang. She just carried the music from her guitar, and let it free into the space around her, as it bounced off the brick walls and iron railings, old cars and rusty bikes crumpled against the neighbouring buildings, making each surface tingle with the new sensation of music.

The street transformed with each song. She sang louder and with more honesty as the guitar seemed to play itself, her movements pushing and pulling the notes until her voice merged with the music and she seemed to disappear into the street scene, as the focus faltered and the music took hold. The sky swam, her words softened and slowly the music created a picture of its own, resting above the harsh forms of the city, colouring them with ideas of love and truth and pain that helped create the rooms behind each door of her street.

The people pushed their ears up against their keyholes, their letterboxes and the cracks in the windowpanes to hear the sound of honesty filling the street in which they lived. The music called to each soul that was lost, confused and yearning for a familiar story to their own. The words filled their eyes and ears and covered their skin with colours they had forgotten existed. Shapes danced in the sky. Light danced on the concrete steps on which the girl sat. People danced behind their curtains, swaying their shoulders, loosening the knots that had tied themselves to the people they had come to believe that they are.

The girl sat on the steps and looked at the sky, her eyes open, her heart full and her notes on their way up to tell the moon a story of their own.