The Magical Harmonica

“Have you ever heard my magical harmonica?”

I’ll never forget that night. I was no more than eight, and it was raining like the dickens. My dad taught me how to count, from the time I saw the flash of the lightning, to the time I heard the thunder. Then we’d divide that number by five and find out how many miles away it was.

I often suspected that he was just trying to make me do my math, but I never thought that again after this particular evening. There was no time for counting. The storm was right on top of us, and I knew it.

My dad knew it too. He was standing beside my bed, taking a shiny rectangular object out of an old white handkerchief.

“What does it do?” I asked.

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On what is needed,” he said, making himself comfortable in the old wooden rocker that my grandmother had given us.

I was never more thankful to have my dad in my room. I tried to act like a grown up most of the time – tucking myself in and sleeping without a light – maybe because my dad had lost his job, and my mom had to go back to work, and the two of them seemed so unhappy.

My dad put that harmonica to his lips and the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard came out. My heart stopped racing and I closed my eyes, just for a second.

The next thing I knew, it was morning.

A mockingbird in our dogwood tree gleefully announced that the storm was over. The sun was shining outside. After falling asleep to the sound of his beautiful music, my usual night terrors had been replaced with sweet, playful dreams.

My father’s harmonica was magical, and he sat in that rocker and played for me almost every night for the rest of that year.

Time passed, and I grew older. My father was busy with a new career, and my mother now stayed home to do what she loved… care for me. The two of them were no longer unhappy, but I missed my dad. And his magical harmonica.

Adolescence struck me like a baseball bat to the head. It was awful. My father encouraged me to play sports, while my mother insisted that I focus on my academics. Sadly, I wasn’t good at either.

My inabilities seemed to be at the center of their lives, and eventually it consumed them. On this particular evening, a small disagreement turned into a heated, loud debate. The walls of my bedroom were thin, so I fled to my father’s office. It was separate from the house, and it was quiet there.

Sitting on his black leather swivel chair, I spun myself in circles until I was dizzy. I felt like I might faint, so I grabbed hold of the credenza, behind his desk. That’s when I saw it again. Forgetting everything else, I walked straight into our house, put that harmonica to my lips… and I played.

The same sweet sound that I heard when my father used to play for me came pouring out of nowhere. I was euphoric. Never before had anything I’d ever attempted been so perfect. So beautiful. So natural.

My parents fell silent, and they listened. And when they were listening, there was no more fighting. My father’s harmonica was magical indeed, and I played for my parents almost every night for the rest of that year.

I was sure that my talent was a miracle, a gift that had been laid upon me by my father’s magical harmonica, and I played it religiously throughout my teenage years.

Miraculously as well, my parents’ relationship began to heal, and by the time I graduated from high school their marriage was stronger than ever.

Before I left for college, my father bought me a harmonica of my own. It cost a pretty penny and I knew it… I’d been eyeing this particular maker for quite awhile. Honestly though, while I appreciated the gesture, my feelings were rather mixed.

It was pleasing – at first – to discover that my musical abilities were not reliant on the magic of my father’s harmonica. On the other hand, the miracles that I had seen came into question. My excitement was soon replaced with an emptiness in my soul.

College life managed to fill that void. Between academics, my music, and fraternity life, there was little room, or time, for anything else. My existential crisis had to wait.

Shortly before my final semester, I met Rachel – the woman of my dreams – and one year later we were married. After that, life moved full speed ahead. A great job, a new house in the suburbs, money problems (no different from anyone else)… and finally a child – our son Charlie was conceived.

I began to work long hours, and even took on a second job during the holidays and even other times when we were strapped.

Every now and then, I thought of my father and his harmonica, and my feelings would oscillate between the magic that seemed to surround those days, and the emptiness that came upon me when doubt set in.

Over time, thoughts such as these became mere folly to me. I came to accept that my father’s magical harmonica was never really magical at all. Then, the unthinkable happened. On a rainy April morning in 2011, I received the news that my father had passed away.

This was not part of the plan, and he was far too healthy to die at his age. I was in shock, and the only thing I could even begin to feel was denial. No sadness, no tears, only disbelief.

Months went by, and I seemed to just go through the motions. I imagine myself as a zombie during that time – still no acceptance, still no sadness, but shame and guilt were worming their way in. It had been too long since I’d made time to visit my father… and now he was gone. Sometimes I barely remembered him at all.

Nearly a year later, when Charlie had just turned five, a package arrived from my mother…a handwritten card was enclosed.

“Your father wanted you to have this.”

Inside, wrapped in the same old white handkerchief, was my father’s harmonica. I carried it into my study, put it to my lips…and I played.

The music that filled the air was more beautiful than I remembered, and visions of my father and I unfolded right there before me, as if decades of home movies had been preserved for me – for that particular moment.

Things I’d long forgotten came forth… the things my father had taught me over the years, the wisdom that he loved to share… and the magic that I experienced whenever he’d play for me.

It was then that I encountered my grief. My tears were unstoppable. Never before had I understood it when people would say they’d had a “healing cry,” but that night I finally got it.

I passed by Charlie’s room on the way to tell Rachel. He was awake… his “anti-monster” night light keeping watch as he struggled to relax. I slipped in and made myself comfortable in that old rocking chair near his bed.

“Have you ever heard my magical harmonica?”

“What does it do?” He asked.

I thought for a moment, and smiled.

“It depends.”