I had looked forward to the concert for months: the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Last Christmas, my husband and I saw them and had an incredible time.
When I closed my eyes, I could still see the bright lasers and flashing lights; still hear the whine of the electric guitars and crashes of the cymbals; most important, I could still feel my husband Dave’s hand in mine. “Next year, we’re getting tickets right in front, with the kids,” he had said, eyeing jealously the people who’d caught guitar picks the band had thrown into the crowd.
When tickets went on sale this year, we bought five—two for us and three for our sons. But just days before the concert, Dave passed away unexpectedly. The concert was the day after the funeral. We can’t go without Dave, I thought. It was his idea in the first place.
Dave’s brother, Marty, and their dad approached me after the service. They knew our family had had plans to attend the concert. They also knew I wasn’t sold on the idea. “Carol, we have tickets to the concert too,” Dave’s father said. “Dave would want us all to go. It can be a tribute to him.” I took a deep breath and agreed.
We had great seats. Dave had made sure of that. Center stage, just eight rows away from the band. If only Dave was there.
At the end of the show, the lead guitarist reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of guitar picks. I stepped forward. I wanted, no, needed to get one. For Dave. It was one reason he’d wanted to sit so close. The picks flew over our heads. Then one zoomed right between my son and me. But people crushed in from everywhere. We missed them all. Dave would have caught one, I thought, missing him so much.
As we walked out, my oldest son asked if he could buy a T-shirt. “Sure,” I said. I fished through my purse and took out my wallet. When I opened it, something small fell out into my hand. I stared in disbelief. It was the guitar pick.
“Wow, how’d you get that, Mom?” my son asked.
“I think I know,” I answered.
