Matthew arrived a few days later with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He had a soft voice that made people lean in when he talked. His hair curled behind his ears, and he wore a denim jacket that looked like it had already lived five lives before it found him.
He wasn’t alone. His friend Simon came with him—chubby, quiet, with purple-tinted glasses and a high-pitched laugh. Simon carried a guitar case plastered with old stickers: Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Led Zeppelin. One said simply SLOW DOWN in crooked red letters.
They had driven in from Calgary in a borrowed station wagon, following some invisible pilgrimage that would end, for now, at the feet of Bob Dylan.
The apartment felt different with them there. Not crowded—just fuller, like someone had opened a window into a wider world. They drank coffee black and smoked cigarettes out on the balcony.
Simon played guitar in the evenings—sometimes out on the balcony, sometimes in the living room. Dad joined him now and then.
I sat cross-legged on the carpet while they passed songs back and forth like offerings.
Simon showed me an open D chord. His fingers were calloused and smelled like smoke and citrus. He pressed my fingers down gently—guiding, not forcing. That’s how I learned to play. Not from lessons, but from hands like his, and moments like that.
He let me strum while he fretted the changes, and when we got through a whole verse together he grinned.
My sister, Kel, sat nearby in her pajamas, drawing suns on the wall with crayons, humming while Mom watched from the kitchen, her eyes soft, her hands quiet. Even Dad seemed lighter somehow, smiling with his arms crossed, like he was watching his past catch up to his present in the best possible way.
But it wasn’t the guitar or Bob Dylan stories that changed me. It was the 8-track. That blue plastic rectangle with the magic sealed inside.
Matthew had brought it in his bag like it was nothing—just something to pass the time. But when he slid it into Dad’s old stereo and pressed play, the room changed.
The Beatles 1967–1970. The blue album. Part two.
The tape started with Back in the USSR, which knocked the wind out of me. But the song that really took hold—the one that looped in my chest for weeks afterward—was Get Back.
I didn’t even understand the lyrics, not really. Who was Jojo? Why did he leave Tucson? Why was Loretta sweet? None of it mattered. What mattered was the urgency—the clean, driving rhythm, the way Paul’s voice danced just behind the beat like it knew something you didn’t.
Get back to where you once belonged.
I didn’t know where that was.
But I wanted to go.
I played it over and over again.
Get Back became my favorite song. Not because of the lyrics—I barely understood them—but because of the way it moved. The way the band locked in. Back in the USSR, While My Guitar Gently Weeps, A Day in the Life—they all felt like doorways. But Get Back? That was the one that made me feel like I had somewhere to be.
The 8-track would click mid-song, breaking the flow to switch tracks. But even the interruptions became familiar, like part of the ritual. Four programs, four shifts. You learned to live with it. I’d grit my teeth, wait for the music to resume, and keep listening.
On the day of the concert, they left early. Simon wore a scarf even though it was summer, and he carried his guitar just in case. “You never know,” he said. “Maybe we get pulled on stage.”
I thought it was a joke, but part of me wondered if it wasn’t. They seemed like the kind of people things happened to. People the world noticed.
They returned late, glowing. Dad was already asleep. Mom too. But I waited up.
“How was it?” I asked.
Matthew smiled. Not the wide, bright kind. A quieter one. Almost reverent.
“He played Simple Twist of Fate,” he said. “Just him and the guitar.”
Simon nodded, sitting on the floor and removing his shoes like it was a sacred act.
I didn’t know the song yet. But I believed them.
The next morning, they were gone. Left before I woke up. I found a note on the counter in Matthew’s slanted handwriting.
But he left more than the note.
He left the 8-track.
And I still think it might be the greatest gift anyone’s ever given me.
I kept it in a shoe box under my bed, right next to the tape of Dad playing Folsom Prison Blues. I listened to them both like prayers—scratched, imperfect, and full of life.
And for a little while, the world seemed like a place where music didn’t just save you.
It gave you something to live for.