"Spaces Between" by Jordan Bryant

“We, as Catholics, should never fear death. We are approaching what we envision as our perfect reality, so why fear it?” The pastor’s voice was strong as it echoed through the pews of the church. His homilies were great but my grandfather Calvin and I liked the hymns better than anything. Music was all we talked about. I remember the first time I pulled down his record player and he blew off all the dust for me. We opened it and picked up some of his records – Dean Martin, Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, and my personal favorite, Frank Sinatra. We would stay in the garage for hours on end and Mama would tell us off for singing ‘til our heads fell off. He and I were walking along the creek at the edge of our land one day and he pushed me in! I yelled out at Grandpa for doing something so silly! He laughed at me as I washed away with the stream – how rude! I was gasping for air and he did nothing – how funny is that? As my head was bobbing in and out of the water all I could see and hear was his deafening laugh and teethy smile! I reached the deeper end of the creek and saw how he remained laughing as my head was submerged – how silly! I swallowed enough water to be full and patiently wanted for Grandpa to come pull me out of the water but there was no one there! He’s playing such a silly game with me! As my head sunk underneath the surface of the water. I was filled with so much clarity for the first time. Too much clarity. Grandpa was never there. I slipped. Mama would tell me off for singing my head off. I was the only one not listening to the Pastor’s homilies. I blew the dust off the record player myself. I never met Grandpa , but I heard about him. I think if he were here in this river with me he would be as afraid of death as I was right then. Death’s silver scythe is sharp but the needle of a record player as it falls between the lines of a measure is sharper. When he comes to take you I have no fear that you will not cease to live on through the art you’ve left behind. For in the bass of Frank Sinatra, I will hear your heartbeat carry the same rhythm – Even if it has gone silent. You are buried in the space between the treble and bass and will live on there forever. For in the cadence of somber slave tunes, I hear your shared tongue as the words hang on the soundwaves similar to those of your voice. For you don’t just fear death, but rather his timing. You fear that it’s heaven gates you will be climbing all too early – without me. But you will not be leaving me behind because you only cease to exist when the record stops. I will not stop it – I will flip it over, and keep flipping it over until it creates a new tune. One that has become my own, one that I can show my own. All in hopes that it also reminds them of you and me. When I climb up there to find you please greet me with a smile as we have cheated death! The water swallowed me up in its embrace and all I could think about was how I wished I sang even louder when Mama told me not to. I wished I kept hooting and hollering out lyrics and told them my favorite tunes and lines. That way they wouldn’t have to live with my absence – but the stream carried me and my music together like a sunken ship with its treasures left on it. Death’s silver scythe is sharp but the needle of a record player as it falls between the lines of a measure is sharper. You and I may grow far apart but the red line that separates the spaces in a measure and connects our hearts – Grows farther.