Fondly: The Night She Fell

fndlygrphc

He stood on stage. Alone. One man and an accordion.

He began playing. Slowly—mournfully.

He was covering Nick Drake’s from the morning. It took a good minute before I realized what he was playing, not because he did it poorly, but because he did it his way.

I would assume that more than 75% of the crowd thought he wrote it.

I stood there, holding her hand tightly. Desperately trying to hold onto her.

But as he sang, “Then the night she fell, the air was beautiful, the night she fell all around,” it became painfully clear.

She had to go.

I loved her. I wanted her. More than anything or anyone I had ever met.

But she had to go.

Her sorrow was palpable at all times, in her sigh, in her blank stare out into a future she needed to face.

I had to make her go. I had to.

I hoped she’d come back to me, but she had to go.

She wasn’t happy. She couldn’t find what she didn’t know she was looking for, and until she knew, I couldn’t help her look.

She had to go, and it destroyed me.

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