Benjamin Francis Leftwich strums a guitar on a sparsely lit stage.
his breathy whisper of singing voice steals the crowd's breath away
confiding his life into strangers' eyes and ears.
lyrics lucid and open.
His voice the voice I heard in headphones, in cheap black earbuds, in small computer speakers
while my mother shuffled pots and pans in the kitchen
while my mother was at work from 6 until 3 and i was bored in the summertime
while she cleaned, balanced checkbooks, watched TV
The music I played from my room just loud enough to filter into the cavernous usually quiet house,
the type of music my father called church music
maybe mostly just compared to the harsh spitting raps
and bass heavy dance music blasting from my sister's room in the morning
But nonetheless, he was right:
music became a church for me.
a sermon to attend in the instant I felt afraid, I felt sad, I felt lonely,
and the artists would reassure me,
give me stability.
I listened to Atlas Hands over and over and over again.
Lost in it, lost it, found it
I swam through life and I arrived in Chicago, October 10, 2019,
Standing next to my boyfriend of nearly two years,
Streams of tears blurred my eyes as
Benjamin Francis Leftwich quietly sang
lyrics I had heard between headphones, between earbuds
for years.
So much had changed outside of the song, but
his music remained reliable.
I might not be able to reverse her death, but
I always know the words that come next:
I will remember your face
'Cause I am still in love with that place
But when the stars are the only things we share
Will you be there?
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