When The Bombs Fell to Coltrane
A Micro Fiction for after the record is finished.
On those early summer days when the breeze sometimes remembered spring’s chill, he’d leave the porch door open. I’d imagine him sitting outside, with a book, or just staring into the trees. How their leaves seemed to enjoy the weather as much as he did. Warm days found him with a tall glass of lemonade—fresh squeezed. His little half smile as each lemon was washed in the colander, and halved on the bamboo cutting board an old roommate had left behind, once upon a time.
And I’d play for him.
Each day he’d ask me to play something different, and of course I would, it was my purpose, and he—was my person. But Sunday mornings were dedicated to Jazz—and Coltrane, was always on his menu when brunch was being served. Over the past few months especially, he had curated for himself quite a vinyl collection. Spanning Alice in Chains to Yiruma? Never a dull moment, as they say.
He’d stopped listening to the radio months earlier, and truthfully, I was glad of it. Whatever was on the news would send him into tirades, storming through the apartment for hours. But before long, he’d be back on the porch, coming inside to turn the record over, and place my needle down again. A few albums in, and everything would be alright.
Something’s been bothering him lately though—this isn’t like him. He hasn’t asked me to play for him since last Sunday. And he knows that a Sunday without Coltrane, is barely a Sunday at all.
-KC
Shout out to J. Mira | Nothing Has Changed. He read the essay below and thought there might be a fiction hiding inside it somewhere. I thought about it and this is what came out. It’s my first fiction posted on Substack. I hope you enjoy it. Thank you, J, I’m glad we met!
