Following the narrow track from our home I heard the birds chirrup, camouflaged on treetops, where sunshine appears to blink behind the leaves as I walk by. It seemed to time itself with the short, high-pitched sounds of the birds that made me think of our old home in Butuan City when I was just a kid.
Music takes me to places as far as the mind can see, I said to myself, even in places back in time.
Mactan Island is known for its world-class guitar makers. Passing along a street where a line of stores sells ukuleles I couldn’t help but recreate the tweets in my mind I’ve carried along from our home, and somehow connected my thoughts to all types of instruments I could imagine- a harp, trombone, ukulele, and a set of drums.
I kept bobbing my head walking, according to an inaudible tune, as if emanating from an invisible Pied Pier of Hamelin on a cool, jazzy Sunday.
I’ve always wanted to learn to play the ukulele. I love music, and long to learn to play one.
Examining smooth curves, the minutiae of its craftsmanship, the summer colors of the ukulele got Mark started, singing slightly above a whisper:
“Wakin’ up too early Maybe we could sleep in Make you banana pancakes Pretend like it’s the weekend now…”
I watched him from behind, in a way connected to his song. I heard only his words that transmuted into a full orchestra in my head, and the store, silent as it was, became illuminated in our minds.
Now in Giovanni’s, Mark drank his beer smiling, and told me, “It’s a beautiful day. We’ve been to places together.”