Her name was Maria,
and he plays for her.

He strums the opening chords, and her wide cinnamon eyes stay that way, expectant, watching him.
The verse begins.
It is a beautiful lament, her joyous, bellied laugh and her sorrow-filled tears, intertwined.
The Spanish music plays on, and he sees her dancing. She is motion, everything from the blooming petals in her flowing mahogany hair, past her lengthy crimson skirt tied in a knot around her delicate waste, beyond the intricately woven yarn around her ankle, down to her feet, light and dainty as they ballet barefoot across the floor.

The stings dance beneath his fingers. The music gets faster and faster as memories pirouette around his mind like a carousel.
The memories shatter, breaking into a thousand tiny images of her.
His eyes squeeze shut.
A tear slips out.

Still the music plays on.

His fingers shift from the pulsing melody to a gentle lullaby, his fingers slowing as she sleeps, her shallow breath going in and out, in and out, bringing in dirty air and expelling it pure.

It’s this memory that stays with him as he lets go, puts down the guitar, and leaves the bench that has become his daytime sanctuary.

Her name is Maria.
And he plays for her.