I took him much too early, spoke the fiddle.

The old man was short and thin. Wizened and wrinkled beyond any comparable years. His face was gaunt, and his eyes were closed.

But the little girl knew that they were blue. A wide unrelenting blue. A blue that spoke of years and years of life. A blue that knew everything about anything. An unearthly hue of the sky at its farthest reaches. A blue the color of the Cookie Monster, and a shade darker than Dora’s monkey friend, Boots.

There was a crow on the fiddler’s right shoulder, the one that did not support the fiddle. The bow glided across the strings, humming out words. Words that spoke to the girl’s heart. The crow did nothing but stare.

He’s so lonely there, the fiddle intoned.

He’s waiting for you.

The little girl stared at the old fiddler. He was dressed in ragged clothing, old slacks and a button-up shirt. An Irish flat cap, like the kind her grandfather had always worn, barely covered stark white, thinning hair. Brown, like his slacks. His shirt was as starkly white as his hair.

He stood near rows of golden wheat, but he faced a wide, limitless green field. The sky was white, and the grass was so green.

Would you go with him? the fiddle asked.

Yards away, there was a tree, a massive beast with roots that tore apart the green grass, some poking up from it as a massive serpent under the sea. Its leaves were green, greener than grass.

And in the shade sat a small boy. His hair was blonde, and his eyes were blue.

He was alone, and he was sad. His lower lip did not stuck out, and he did not cry. He merely stared into the beautiful shade of green and the amber sea of grain. He stared at all of the beauty, and he did not see it.

Can I take you to him? the fiddle asked again.

The little girl with brown hair stared up at the man. The old man. The old fiddler.

“Yes,” she answered without thinking.

The fiddler played on, seemingly oblivious to her answers or the fiddle’s questions. The fiddler looked far sadder than the boy beneath the berth of the tree. Beneath the wrinkles, there was a core of sadness, of doing a dirty job that needed to be done.

I’m so sorry, little girl. I really did make a mistake this time.

The fiddler stopped playing, and his eyes opened. They were blue. She was right.

The silence spoke to her, far more expressive than the fiddler.

I’m so sorry.

And the boy looked up. A whorl of wind teased a leaf from the tree, and it fluttered to land in front of him.

He’s just so alone here.

The old man moved the fiddle off of his shoulders, and the crow squawked, stirring for the first time. It ruffled its bluish-black feathers and cawed, just a little.

Wake up. It’s already seven-

-thirty in the morning and you need to get to school!” The voice was frantic, and the little girl slid further into the comforts of her bed. The pink sheets were warm, and the pillow was soft.

“Lemme wait longer, daddy. Five more minutes. The teacher said I get a day off.”

“What?! No! No no no. I thought you were up fifteen damn minutes ago. You know I let you sleep longer than you should. Get up, get up. Get dressed. Are you crazy? Your mother’s going to kill me.”

“Mommy won’t hear about it. She’s gone on vacation.”

“Oh, she’ll find out. You know how she is. And don’t say it’s vacation. She’s in Bangladesh for work.” He sighed and gently kicked a stuffed rabbit out of the way. He was cleanly shaven and tall. The girl’s daddy had brown hair, cropped closely to his head but not enough that it was a buzz-cut. “No one would go to a place like that for fun.”

He straightened his tie. And then he bent low to tie his shoes. Slowly, he was calming down. The suit was nicely ironed, and his strong hands tightly gripped the handle of the briefcase.

“I set aside clothes for you last night, okay Cindy? Just put them on then come to the dinner table. We’re late, so grab an apple, and get in the car.”

She slid out of her bed immediately, and her daddy nodded, smiling a bit. He bent down, patted her head, and left the room.

She stretched, and she stepped to her dresser. It was her favorite shirt with the big blue and green and purple butterfly on the front. And a pair of yellow shorts with her brown sandals and bright orange socks. Her nose wrinkled. Daddy did not match colors well, nor did he know a girl should dress

It reminded her of what her grandfather had once said.

Your father tries hard, but he-

-doesn’t know what a kid’s thinkin’, Cindy. You can’t be blamin’ him for bein’ boring. I don’t think he’s played since before he was your age.”
Cindy looked up at her grandfather and smiled. He was warm, but that may have been because he was wrapped up in a blanket. He rocked slowly in the wooden chair in front of the large bay window. Outside, the usually meticulously kept lawn was covered in orange and yellow leaves. The two trees in the expansive front lawn were bare. Their thin grey arms reached to the white sky and the bright, colorless sun.

She felt so warm, sitting on her grandfather’s lap and looking out into the cold expanse.

“Grampa?”

“Yeah, Cindy?”

She was quiet for a moment, and her brow furrowed in extreme thought. Finally, she found the right words floating in the bright ether. “Grampa, Gramma’s in heaven, right?”

And he was quiet. He rocked on in his chair, and Cindy looked up at him. He was an old man with hair of gunmetal-grey. His face was heavily wrinkled, and his hands were gnarled with arthritis. But his eyes were blue, and they were powerful. They twinkled, and they managed to stay young when the rest of his body seemed to be giving up on him.

As he thought, she reached out and took a bit of his skin. She pulled up and watched with awe as it slowly went down. His skin was even losing the elasticity, but she did not know the word yet. She only knew that it was amazing, possibly magical.

And higher up on his arm was an old black tattoo. The ink had seeped all around his arm, but she could still see an anchor and what looked like an eagle, but what she called a pretty birdie.

“Well,” he said at last, and he cleared his throat the way he always did when he was thinking hard. “I’m pretty sure she is. Up in heaven. I’m sure.”

“What’s heaven like?”

And he thought some more. He gazed out into the white sky, and his eyes squinted from the bright sun.

“Heaven’s a big green field. The sun hangs high in the sky, like milk, and the light’s all golden and warm. There’s a stream that cuts right through, and the water tastes like honey and milk.”

“I don’t like honey,” Cindy countered, but her grandfather continued.

“And there’re these big trees everywhere that give the best shade. Shade that can either feel like you’re wrapped up in an electric blanket or sittin’ in an air-conditioned house. And there’s a fiddle. There’s always music, and you’re there with the people you’ve loved most in your life, the people you’ve been with. And you dance with ‘em, or you just sit there, and you just bathe in the joy. But mostly, you’re there with that one person you’ve been with your entire damn life. And you’re with them, mostly, but you can visit the others. And you’re with them, and… Damn it, you dance. And it’s like falling in love every second.”

A tear fell. Singular and thoughtless. He was quiet, and he looked down at his granddaughter. One arthritic hand reached up to rub her head.

“Think Gramma’d like it?”

“I know she would.”

And outside, the sun blared bright-

-through the window. Cindy did not like the bright sun, and she wrinkled her nose at it before shutting the door as hard as she could. Her father turned and looked down at his watch, then looked up at the fairly upper scale apartment complex, as he liked to call it.

“We’re not gonna be late. Thanks for gettin’ ready early, honey.”

Cindy smiled up at her dad. Instead of the clothes he had set aside, she had found a nice skirt and some pretty shoes to wear. Though, she did keep the butterfly shirt, because it was her favorite, and she did love it.

“Mommy usually lets me sleep later, daddy.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, pumpkin, but I’m not mommy.” He smirked, and then he actually smiled down at his daughter. “C’mon, let’s go.” The car was nice and black. Her father called it a symbol of wealth, and her mother called it compensation.

Cindy did not know what the either of them meant, but it did not matter. She slid into the back seat and dutifully buckled her belt. The backpack sat next to her, and she smiled, staring at her reflection in the overhead mirror.

Her father fiddled with the keys, slid them into the little slit, and then they were off. Cindy immediately lowered the windows on her side.

The radio was on, and it was some boring news show. About money and president people, and sometimes her father would yell at the radio, and he would call them bad names. But he usually stopped when Cindy told him that they could not hear him.

He stopped at a red light, and he turned around. He was smiling, and Cindy smiled back. Outside, she could hear a fiddle playing. As usual, she furrowed her brow and looked out to see an old man at a street corner. A bird sat on his shoulder, and there was an open violin case upon the ground.

He seemed familiar.

But, any other ponderings were back to her father, because he was speaking.

He was looking at her through the rear-view mirror, and he was smiling. Her father rarely smiled so it was an odd and wondrous thing. She stared into his eyes, and she was smiling, a simple expression of contentment.

“You dressed yourself, huh?”

“Yeah, daddy. You didn’t pick out anything good.”

He smirked, and he shook his head. “You’re just like your mother. She doesn’t like my style either.”

“You try, daddy.”

“I do.”

The sound of the fiddle rose to a hum in her throat.

He reached back, and he ruffled her hair. She smiled back at him, but she quickly reached up to fix what he had messed.

And then there was a blaring of a horn. Metal smashed against metal, and there were even more blasts of horn.

Cindy felt searing hot pain. It broke her, and she cried out, but her cries were unheard.

Don’t be sad.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” said voices from outside. Cindy could hear the crackling of fire.

Outside the car, a ring of people had amassed, and there was a fire. She felt hands gripping her, trying to pull her from the twisted metal. She could hear crying. And the fiddle still played.

I’ve made a mistake. For the first time.

And she felt cold, impossibly cold. She was tired, and there was darkness.

The sound of the fiddle swelled, she felt something in her mind reach out, and there was warmth. The fiddling grew in strength.

Take my hand. It will all be okay. Take my hand, and all your pain will go away. Close your eyes and I’ll take you there

She took his hand.

The air was clear, and her blood flowed from her wounds. She could hear her father crying, and another man crying, too.

A butterfly landed upon his shoulder, for just a moment, and then it flew away, up into the sky. He did not notice.

The air was warm, and it smelled like-

-honey.

She opened her eyes, and the red became green. The cool water of the wood flowed, and she bent to it. She scooped up a handful and pressed the cool water to her lips. It tasted impossibly sweet.

And the fiddle still played. She turned, and the old man was there. He looked so sad, and so sorry.

What was I to do? I took him far too early. And here, he had no one. You were to be with him.

And she saw the boy, and she walked to him, as the fiddle spoke to her. That impossible, intangible music. The music filled her with life and vigor, brought her from the darkness.

He has no one without you. I thought… I thought he’d be happy here with you.

The blonde boy looked up at the little girl. And he smiled, just a little. Sheepishly. Cindy reached his hand to him, and he blushed but took it.

I did not think he should wait so long. And I did not think you should live a life without the one true love. All because of my mistake. You can be together here.

He took her hand.

And they danced.