Counting to Ten
That evening, as usual, I was on my way to the underground, completely absorbed in my phone. If I glimpsed someones back ahead, I’d instinctively adjust my path, but, truth be told, I hardly registered who passed me by, who was approaching, or anyone else at all. And really, what difference does it make? It’s not as if I want to examine the crowds on my daily commute.
Ive seen enough, smiled enough, nodded enough for a lifetime.
Im thirty, and I work in a bank. Sounds like a solid, promising career, right? Well, not in my case. Im still stuck at the lowest rung, helping pensioners pay their utility bills, withdraw their pensions, listening to endless rambling about the weather and the price of bread. Frankly, I don’t care about their problems. My own life feels like one gigantic problem without an exit, but I bob my head, smile at the old ladies, sigh dramatically, and demonstrate repeatedly how to press the buttons on the cash machine so they can finally pay the bit of rent that gives them a little more time in their flats.
Our branch is right in the heart of the city, so the ladies who frequent it are quite comfortable in terms of their living arrangements. They dress simply but with dignity; Im sure they spend their evenings reading Keats (my English teacher practically beat metrical stress into our heads); they sip herbal tea in rocking chairs, under the soft glow of a Tiffany lampalways a Tiffany lamp, with a floral shade. On the table, a little pillbox. Their lives are mapped out, day in, day outthe same pills, the same appointments, phone calls to friends and family, a different soup each week, and always news about some new test at the GP’s surgery. They tell me all about their results and, like a proper brown-noser, I even ask how it went, whether theres been any improvement. If not, I sigh sympatheticallytotally convincinglyeven though I dont give a toss. Im selfish, and thats my right.
I long ago lost the thread of what Im supposed to be living for. When I was a boy, I dreamed of being a guitarist in a band. We had a little gang, played in the underpasses, collected coins, then spent it all at the burger place afterwards.
The musical ear? That came from my old man. He played too. But it never made any real money, and with Mum expecting me, he had to get a proper job, same as any normal bloke.
Thats just a bit of youthful mucking about, hed say, whenever we looked at his old photos. You need to study, get yourself a steady profession. Do as I say, Sam. His regret hung in the air. I wasted my life plucking strings and now Ive got neither a trade nor a decent wage.
Id nod along, but by eleven Id already started to muck about with a guitar. Mum would give me a withering look, Dad would shrug, but Id lose myself wholly in the shrill noises coming out of that battered old thing. Why “old”? Our neighbour, a disabled veteran, gave it to me on the understanding I wouldnt bury my talent.
Which, of course, I did. Sometime around the start of my final year at school, it suddenly hit me how poor and ordinary our life really wasflat, food, clothes, all second-rate. All because my dad never became someone respectablesay, a doctor or an engineer. Mum never took to the sciences, either, so ended up working as a shop assistant.
And it washed over methe loathing for my small, pitiful life. I decided to change it all. And, in the process, I felt hard-done-by and angry at my parents for not being “proper”. Why then, why all of a sudden? Well, a woman was involved, as usualtwice my age, my first love. She wanted dinners out and excitement; I couldnt provide either. She dumped me, said shed never go near a nobody like me. I was insulted, and resolved to turn things round. I ditched the guitar, picked up my books, and set about getting into uni. Banking seemed the quickest way to riches. Just a bit of patience, I told myself, and soon Id forget all about busking in my leathers and bandana, my skinny legs in faded jeans, playing Oasis on the street while the crowd clapped along, dropping pound coins in the open case. Carefree, happylike nothing mattered but me, the city, and the music.
Forget. Count to ten and forget. Thats what I do now, when it all feels too much. One, two, three
Banking turned out to be neither fun nor lucrative, at least not for me. I’m still at the bottom of the heap, no idea why. One, two, three, four
Life has become just as monotonous for me as for the old dears who come in. Funny, really. But at least Im not swallowing handfuls of medication. Thats my advantage.
I actually smiled at that thoughtliving poor, in a battered bedsit in an old block of flats due for demolition, not even mine, just rented. Nicotine-scorched curtains, scratched floorboards, chipped doors, a rusty old bath, an empty fridge, dust everywhere, and certainly no Tiffany lampjust a wonky standard lamp and the noise from the Gypsy family next door. Seven boisterous lads, all roaring at once. My pensioners would keel over in shockbut I? I cope. I dont take pills. Rustam, the dad, sometimes sings at night while his wife picks out chords on a battered guitar. I sit at my table, staring into the darkness, clenching my fists and counting: One, two, three, four My life is differentand better than it could be. So there.
Yes, I envy those who live better, richer, more respectably. And I despise them. We all know money doesnt smell sweetand the rich, more often than not, have shady hands. But I want to be rich as well. Its all ahead for me, while those clients, draped in their silver rings and bracelets, have already had their run.
My path is my own. Turns out Im clever, patient, flexible, well-spokenwhich is why I landed a job at this wretched bank as an adviser. But I hate it. Knew it from the day of my induction. But serving in a bank is respectable and prestigious. Not like fiddling with a guitar! At the underground now, youll see young people singing with raspy voices into a microphone, hoping for a few coins. I hurry by, avoiding their beaming eyes. I chose differently. Much better, youll see! One, two, three, four, five
My wage is pitiful, at least compared to my senior colleaguesbut for me, its enough. I scrimp and save, putting away for a deposit on a flat, the same as most of us marching towards the underground this time of night.
Ive lived away from my parents since finishing uni, visiting occasionally, calling but always cutting conversations short. Im bored of hearing about Mums day at the market or about Dads unfinished repairs. Thats their life, dull and repetitive. I need to move forward.
So forward I go. Phone in hand, mind blank, flicking through videos on social media for distractiondancing girls, moustachioed chefs, adorable petsendless content to waste time. Comedians flog dead jokes. I could do better, but Id never stoop to making clips for social media. I work at a bank! That still surprises my old mates from the estatethey still fix up battered cars in freezing sheds and busk in the underpasses at night. Were all thirty, but worlds apart now. Theyre stuck at the bottom while I Im in a suit, sharp shoes, helping old ladies pay the billsspotless, tidy, with a tie and well-pressed shirt cuffs poking out just right.
How much for the suit? Nick-the-mechanic, my old classmate, flicks his fingers, reaching to feel the fabric.
Dont touch, youll put oil stains on it! I push his hand away. No idea. Its a work issue.
Fancy that! Nick respects memy brains, not his spanners. Any jobs there for a mechanic then? Put in a wordtheres nothing I cant fix!
He looks up, hopeful. Maybe he wants the suit, the shoes, the tie, and a job in a glass office too.
Doubt it, Nick. You havent even got a qualification.
Youre right. No diploma. He shrugs. And I dont pity him. Should have studied instead of drinking booze. Thats that.
Nick left school and went straight into the garageshe needed the money. His father drank himself to death before Nick was even ten, and his mum, Mrs. Banks, raised Nick and his sister, Emily, alone. Emily got pregnant at seventeen and now has a son, Mikey. She doesnt work, just leeches off her mum, brother, and the boys dadwhos too daft to question if the kids even his, handing over every penny. Emily spends it all out clubbing.
In truth, Nick is more like a father to little Mikey than anyone.
Their flat is crammed full, a mess, but Mrs. Banks refuses to give up her treasures.
Sell some of it! I suggested, popping round in my suit. Online! Emilys at home anywaycould do it herself.
How could we, Sam? Its all junk, she sighs.
It all sells, Mrs. Banks! Even rusty potssomeone clever will upcycle it, put it in a YouTube video. Theres cash to be made from anything.
I sound confident, even smug. I could take some pictures, write up the ads, but I cant be bothered. Theyre not helpless. Let them manage.
Ill think about it, Sam, thank you. She nods apologetically. I suppose she might, or she might not.
After tea and soup there, I dawdle in the hall, pulling my coat over my jacket, staring at Nicks guitar. Hes a wizard with the stringscould play circles around me. And he never stopped. I purse my lips and start counting: One, two, three, four, five After saying goodbye to Mrs. Banks, Ill head to my cold flat. Unlike her, I have no children, no tearaway sister. I have career prospects, cashpoints, jacket and tie. Im cut from different cloth.
Tonight, I left work late; the street lights and Christmas displays blinking away. I bury my nose in my scarf. The coat is decent enough, no hatI never wear hats. Maybe a bandana, once. I grit my teeth and count: One, two, three, four, five, six
The bag slung over my shoulder is empty, carried for effect, like the older staff at the bank.
I stride calmly over the paved square, when suddenly, someone bumps into me from behind, muttering an apology. Its a womans voice, slurred and shaky.
I turn. Swaying behind me is an old ladyone Id only just seen at the cash machine, paying for her flat and her sisters. I remembered, because the second bill was crumpled and missing the scan codeI had to enter it manually. Under the harsh white light of the bank, shed seemed surprisingly spry: crocheted hat, smart coat, clutch bag, alive with interest.
Is it your first time paying bills here? Id asked, noticing her nervous shuffling.
Oh, good evening, young manSam. She read my name from the badge. Yes, and youve a beautiful name, you know. There was a poet called Sam, wasnt there? The old lady seemed delighted to have found a friendly helper. She unwound her scarf, undid her coatflushed with relief. Sorry, yes, my first time. My granddaughters swamped with work, and our Bens moved away Her face clouded. Bens my grandson.
Id noddedhonestly, why bother with so many children and grandchildren? Bens gone, the granddaughter off somewhere, not a word about any actual childrenprobably abandoned her. Rich people always do. And so she trudges to the bank to settle the bills.
Lately, cynicism rested heavy on my mind.
Could we do this quickly? she pleaded.
I snatched the bills from her brittle fingers and took them to the machine.
My senior colleague, Malcolm, shook his head, gestured at me to keep smilingreminding me that he and I represent the company and must show patience. Id like to see patience buried.
Still, I smiled, and the old lady beamed back, pleased to be rescued.
If youve got, well I almost said more capable family members, but caught myselfif you have children or grandchildren, they could always pay through the phone app. No need to queue.
So clever. Dishing out advice.
They do, they do, she said. But I cant put everything on them! They work so hard, its not easy these days. It never was easy to earn honest money. Jennymy granddaughtershes in the office from dawn till dusk, typing and typing. Ben never seems to be home, always travelling with work. They pay all my bills, everywheredo you follow, Sam, are you listening?
Half-listening, half-irritatedbut listening nonetheless.
Whats wrong with that? I asked, scanning the barcodes. You supported them first, now they look after you. Circle of life.
Quite right. Nothing wrong, she agreed. But I dont want to burden them. So I get up to mischief like this. She blushed. Time for my card? Yes, here!
She handed over her bank card. I tapped it to the reader.
PIN. Please enter your PIN! I barked, but she seemed deaf. She stood, motionless, eyes squeezed shut.
One moment Could you fetch me some water? she asked, rubbing her temple. It’s quite stuffy in here.
Oh, the complaints! Too hot, too cold, too dark, too bright, too loudnever mind.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…
Here you are. Youll have to start again. I thrust the card into her hand, frustrated, and fetched her a cup of cold water.
Malcolm gave me an encouraging nod: Hang in there, mate, two more hours till freedom!
She gulped down the water, thanked me.
Im ready now, handing her card back.
Againbill, card, pin she cant remember, rummaging through her bag, searching for a note, apologies and sighs.
Is she a stooge? flashed through my mind. Turns up near closing, playing the helpless act.
Do you want to sit down? I offered, masking my impatience.
No, Im not that old! She found her little slip of paper. I’ll press the numbers.
I turned away discreetly. She tapped her code, then touched my shoulder. I flinched.
What now? she asked in a tiny voice.
Had enough? I thought. Well, I have! Why do you shuffle around, clueless, and where are your family? Out living it up, while youre forgottenriches clouding their heads! Another wave of bitterness. Who at? Everyone! Nick always says Im like a spring wound tight, bound to snap and hurt someone. NonsenseIm just building my career.
Six, seven
First bill, then the secondboth for sizeable amounts.
Do you have two flats? I blurted out.
The second is my sisters. Annies in the hospital now, at University College. Nothing serious, just her stomach playing up Shes been a widow three years since Peter passed. The sorrowful pause while I did my job. Im helpingshe cant pay bills from her hospital bed, can she? Ive just left her
She chattered on, but I was done with tales of sad, wealthy relatives and nauseating nicknames.
Type in your PIN! I barked.
She obediently pressed the buttons.
Thank you, young man! Youve been a big help. Have I worn you out? Im hopeless, sorry I just wanted to do my bit… Goodbye, Sam, have a lovely evening.
She tied on her scarf, adjusted her bag, and headed outsideout where it was cold and clear, wishing me a nice evening nonetheless…
And now, there she was, weaving in front of me, absolutely sloshed. Got drunk quickly, those rich habits on display. Although, truthfully, I couldnt picture this frail old dear downing pints.
You again? Please dont keep bumping into me, I grumbled.
So…so sorry, she mumbled. Im Im just… going… ho…home
Best do, off you go! I snapped.
She stuttered forward, her feet catching, and suddenly crumpled to the pavement.
Instinctively, I rushed to grab her; my bag slipped, whacking my leg.
Hey! Are you alright? I shouted, but received no answer.
I looked around for help, but passers-by hurried on, ignoring the commotion. Why get involved?
A sudden realisation chilled me internally.
Show me your tongue! I said, open your mouth, stick out your tonguehey! I insisted. She weakly obeyed; it lolled to the left.
My phone, stuffed in my pocket, seemed impossibly huge, as did my spinning head, yet I felt myself tiny, small and terribly, terribly alone on the slick pavement.
Everything around us had emptied, as though the world had been switched off. Just me and Mrs. Sophia Davies, my recent client.
I finally called an ambulance and sat with Sophias head on my knees, not daring to move. I could see she was breathing, her headscarf trembling slightly.
Well, at least shes alive, I thought. What if shed
Why me? Why did I get dragged into this? Why not Malcolm, or one of the girls on the team?
The paramedics arrived. Mrs. Davies was lifted onto a stretcher. I explained what had happened, hoped to make a swift exit, but as she came round, she begged me to come with her.
She seemed to think I should call her family, too.
As I fished her mobile from her bag under the paramedics watchful eye, it erupted with the blaring of Mendelssohn. A cheerful ringtone…
It was Jenny.
“Hello? Jenny? My names Sam, I But before I could finish, she demanded to speak to her nan, barking that if I didnt sort things out, shed have my guts for garters.
One paramedic took the phone, introduced himself and updated her, giving directions to the hospital.
Drained, Jenny just squeaked that she understood.
You did well, Sam. Bit of a medic, are you? one of the paramedics joked.
No, just seen it in films, I muttered.
You see that, Matthew? Only in films The driver grinned as we sped through the city lights.
I sat quietly as Sophia gripped my hand, her fingers unexpectedly strong.
It was a new sensation. It felt like being dragged by the scruff into life for the very first time. My head buzzed with thoughts. For a moment, I glimpsed an alternate realityblue lights, beeping monitors, flashing streetlamps. My palms sweated. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight
No one in the hospital reception paid me any attention as the commotion for Mrs. Davies began. Soon, she was whisked away and I was left alone on a hard metal chair. Why? I didnt know. Maybe I wanted to have words with Jenny.
But what would I say? Its their family affair. Thoughwhat if shed collapsed at home alone?
Good thing that young chap picked her up, one nurse murmured behind me. Rather handsome, too…
I felt their gaze, my cheeks burning. I glanced at myself.
God, I looked like a stray cat!
Trousers grimy, damp, streaked with salt, coat stained by spilled coffee.
A proper tramp.
Suddenly, a line came to me: He walked as if alone, unnoticed by the crowds And I remembered that damp autumn day, Nick and me singing on Oxford Street before we were shooed awaythe stage required a licence we couldnt afford.
Now that was a day! People cheered us, joined in, and for a momentadrenaline surging in a way I’d never felt, not even during exams.
Those days are gone six, seven, eight
Excuse me! A girl burst into the reception. Excuse me, Im here for Mrs Davies
Jenny. What a sweetheart! I straightened my jacket as I stood.
Shes on a ward now. Dont worry, just call up in the morning, theyll update you, said a nurse. By the way, this young man here found hersaved her really…
Jenny turned, took a moment to size me up, then grabbed my hand, shaking it, starting to sob.
Thank you! You dont know what youve done! Id never have coped if
Yes. Yes, I get it. Let me go. I wrenched my hand free and looked down at her. You know, this is your fault, what happened.
Yes, I had the right. I know everything. Dont ask if this high horse suits meit does. I dont think honesty is cruel.
What? Jenny blurted, eyes wide as dolls from the newsagent by my flat.
Yes. Your grandmother came to our bank to pay bills. Couldnt any of you family do that? Why should your nan have to go out, risking her health? Youre all so busyraking in the cash, right? Thats how people neglect family. Thats called selfishness, coldnesschasing after a handful of coins!
I laid it on thickme, the saviour, whod made the right diagnosis before the ambulance, despising these pampered kids, knowing they were superficial and selfish…
I was on topand in a pit. For years Id clawed at the walls of this cell, unable to climb out. It enraged me.
Jennys face crumpled. She burst into tears like a little girl.
Hey! The nurse snapped, rounding on me. How dare you! Who do you think you are, judging people? Yes, you did well, but that gives you no right
But Jenny clutched her arm. Its alright, hes probably right. We didnt look after her enough. Me and Ben. Too busy with ourselves. Bens exhaustedneeds a break. Nans so independent, always up to something I didnt collect her bills yesterday, Im writing my dissertation, my heads a mess Yes, its my fault. Ben told me to take care
Her phone rang. She turned aside, tearfully relating everythingme, my harsh words, her guilt.
I guessed it was Ben.
When she was done, she passed the phone to me.
Let me talk to this hero, Bens gruff voice boomed. I introduced myself.
Look here, mate, he snapped. You want money? How much? I can see from your tone youre a self-righteous sort, but you dont know anything! Ill tell you: Jenny saved Nans life when our parents diedfed her, carried her, when Nan had given up. Jenny was fifteen. What were you doing at fifteen? Probably leeching off your mum. How much do you want?
How dare you My voice cracked; my crown fell, shattering.
I shoved Jennys phone back into her hands, snatched my shabby, coffee-soaked coat, nodded to the receptionist, and left, nearly tripping over a rough sleeper.
Whyd I even come? Should have sent Mrs. Davies in the ambulance and gone home to my tatty bedsit, eaten my supper, dodged Mums call (or else listen to half an hour of chitchat), then veged in front of the TV, flicking through channels, passing out and counting minutes to something special which never arrives
I strode to the bus stop, seethinga king toppled. Id saved Sophia Davies from the brink, and now Ben had raked up my own past.
I clenched my fists and remembered sitting in the garage at fifteen, fresh from busking. Wed made enough for bread and ham, but the corner shop wouldnt sell us vodka We were happydumb enough to think only joy lay ahead, picturing ourselves on the stage at Wembley, mobbed by fans, handing out autographs.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine
On the bus, I mumbled the count. An old lady had almost died in my arms, and it was terrifying. Id lashed out at a frightened girl simply because I was miserable myself. I was at my limit. I hated myself and my life, too afraid to begin again.
I reached home, let myself in. The place was freezingmust have shut the heating off.
I shut the kitchen window, stuck the kettle on, and watched the blue flame through the steel kettles belly. Couldnt be bothered to undress. My phone pingeda message from Mum:
Dads birthday today. Just reminding you.
His birthday? Id forgotten.
I dialled Dads number, but realised I had nothing to say. Id grown so used to only talking about myself, my own little victories, the supposed big things to come. That wasnt the thing to say now.
I let the call drop, pushed the phone away. Why cant we break away from our families? This connection, this bondit suffocates, drains energy!
I poured hot water into a mug, dropped in a teabag.
Meanwhile, Mums probably got the proper teapot out, that old one with the violets on it, biscuit tin on the table, sweets on the shelf.
Right now, my parents are likely having tea, even got cake, maybe invited someone over. Dads probably already had a little whisky, telling stories, no backache tonight, all worries far, far away. Tonight is a holiday.
And here I amalone in a cold kitchen. No sweets, no cake. Nobody to sit with. But I saved someone today Or at least, helped a little.
Shed annoyed me, Sophia Davies, and yet I cant stop thinking about her. Maybe Ill visit her in hospital soon? I should have got Jennys numbermaybe theres something I can do? Although, what would they want with someone like me?
I sighed, realising how obsessed with money Id become. I wanted to live wellso well that a kid like I was at sixteen would envy me. Im moving towards a goal, sweeping aside everything in the way, only at the beginning, and yet already sick of it. Why? Because Ive thrown away everything that mattered, sold out, smothered my own song.
My phone vibrated, I answered automatically.
You called, son? Are you free? Come over if youve time. We miss you.
My dad coughed, Mum grabbed the phone from him, started chatteringI didnt hear; the connection was poor, and I was already running for the tram.
Samwhere you off to? Rustam, my neighbour, dodged aside.
Home! Its Dads birthday, I called.
Wait! Rustam trotted after me, grabbed my arm. Here, take thesesister sent me fruit from Liverpool. Ive two more bags in the car. Mind you share with your dadmy regards to him.
Rustam shoved a bag of pineapple, satsumas, pears, apples into my hands and steered me to the tram stop. I leapt on, waving goodbye.
What a strange bloke! He doesnt even know my dad, me neither, not really, but he gives us a gift. People can be good.
I hesitated at my own front door, embarrassed to use my key. Instead, I rang the bell. Dad opened upsame blue-and-white striped top, same shorts, the old tattoo on his shoulder, stubbled face.
Well now, thats better. Everyone together. Hows it going, son? He stuck out his hand, I gave him the fruit, shrugged. For some reason, I nearly burst into tears.
It had been so long since anyone had asked about my dayand truly wanted the answer.
All this time, Id played the part of the detached, single-minded striver, fixated on my career. But it wasnt enough. I needed morelove, which Id dismissed as unnecessary, skipping out on family. I need music, friends Thats why Sophia, Jenny, and Ben annoyed me so much. They arent bonded just by money or propertytheyre family, warm and supportive. Mrs. Davies went to the bank for them. Rustam chased me with a bag of fruit for mine And somehow, Id cut myself out.
Want something to eat? Mum asked, hugging me. Come, wash your hands. I can tell youve got a lot to tell us.
Shes right. There was a lot to sayto her and to Dad. And later, Id fetch my old guitar from the atticI knew Mum had kept it. Itd be battered, sad, old, but it didnt matter. I’ve got enough for a mortgage nowenough for a hundred guitars!
Nine, ten!
I made it to the end, saw an exit.
Why today? Who knows. Maybe everythingMrs. Daviess collapse, Jennys tears, Bens rantall came together and shattered the wall between me and the world. Or maybe Im simply worn out. Either way, things can’t stay the same. For now… for now, Ill wish Dad a happy birthday and tell him hes taught me more than he knows. Hell smile back:
How else, son? Were family!
And Ill nod.
Later, I visited Nick. We sat in his kitchen for ages, reminiscing, laughing, looking through old photos. Nick is so happyI never realised.
Thanks, Nick, I said, feeling oddly free.
For what? he asked, surprised.
For just being there.
A year later, Id handed in my notice at the bank and started teaching guitar at a private music studio. Im still learning myself, but I dont need to count to ten to calm down anymore.
Sometimes Jenny pops by the studio. She sings beautifully.
Dont ask if theres anything between us yet. Were not sure ourselves. Time will tellWhen the workday ends and my hands ache from teaching chords to fingers more stubborn than strings, I sometimes pause at the big studio window. The city glimmers and hums, busy as always, but I see it differently nowmore color, more warmth, more hope.
Sometimes there are jam nights, and Nick joins us, laughing until his cough makes him gulp tea. Even Rustam stumbles in with a bag of cheap cakes, insisting we all take a bite. And sometimes, when the studio is empty and quiet, Mum and Dad drop by. Dad nods along with the music, his foot tapping out a rhythm thats simple and steady. After, we sit on folding chairs and talknot just about bills or what’s next, but about old songs, favorite memories, and how we all ended up here.
A year ago, I was counting, just to keep going. Now, without noticing, I sing.
My skin smells like fretboard oil and late-night bread rolls from the bakery next door, but my days have a songline again. I dont walk unseen in the city anymore. Sometimes people nod to me firststudents, neighbors, even pensioners who remember “that kind young man from the bank.”
Sophia Davies recoveredshe even came to the Christmas recital, hands trembling on her walking stick, eyes bright as ever. Jenny and I walked her home in the frost, talking about everything and nothing, our laughter echoing over the icy pavement.
One evening, as we stood at her gate, Mrs. Davies squeezed my arm and looked up at us, her gaze flinty and soft at the same time. You saved me, Sam. But you saved yourself, too. Didnt you?
I couldnt answer then. But as I watched Jenny smiling in the blue-hued streetlight, her hair ruffled and her cheeks pink from cold and song, it struck meI didnt need to count anymore.
I just needed to play.
And so, in the hush after the music, I finally found what Id been searching fornot in counting to ten, but in starting again, with every note, every word, every open door.
Because in the end, were all songs still being writtenmessy, unfinished, but endlessly worth singing.
