January 08, 2008|By E. L. SYVERSON

Seeing you on a screen will never be enough to satisfy the muse I feed.
Recordings made of you when I was too young to see what your sound meant.
All I saw was someone my father admired.
Someone he needed me to appreciate.
Someone I could never fawn over at the age of 4.
A man on a stage.
I thought you had wings once, all colors, hanging from your outstretched arms.
Today, I believe you could fly because no one else's notes can take me higher.
The body couldn't sound like that.
If music was your religion, your voice was in tongues.
That little dance you did, gritting your teeth and sliding backwards.
Bending your knees and doubling over in worship.
Praying to coax the music farther out of your fingers.
Having all that inside you and having to work to get it out.
Your life had to have been anguish without the sound.
I know it hurt to have the blues like you did.

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