Oh Baby, Wasn’t I There?
A Cold Bed In The Quiet Earth
I walked through the cemetery, the soles of my boots crunching softly against the gravel path. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and the shadows stretched long and thin, casting an eerie glow over the gravestones. I shouldn’t have been there. This was not a place for late-night visits, especially not alone. But tonight, I needed to be here. I needed to see him.
I was just a teenager when he was tearing up stages, leaving a trail of shattered amps and broken hearts in his wake. But his music, the raw power of his presence—it spoke to me, like nothing else ever had. Even now, years after his death, I couldn’t listen to his songs without feeling a pang of something deep in my chest. Was it love? Maybe. It was hard to say. How do you love someone you’ve never met? Someone who never even knew you existed?
But love was the only word that made sense when I thought about him. He was a ghost, a shadow on the edge of my existence, but his songs spoke to parts of me I didn’t even know existed.The way his voice wrapped around me, raw and gritty, full of pain and passion. The way his intense lyrics, the depth of his emotion reached into my soul and cut through the noise of the world, speaking directly to the parts of me I kept hidden. He was reckless, wild, impossible to tame. And somehow, I loved him for it. How do you explain the way a voice, a melody, can penetrate your heart so deeply that it feels like a personal confession?
I found his grave near the back of the cemetery, secluded beneath an old oak tree whose twisted branches seemed to mourn with me. The tombstone was simple, elegant—black marble with his name etched in bold letters. ‘Caleb Coldwell: Forever Loud, Forever Free.’ I smiled sadly at the inscription. It was so him, so fitting, like even in death, he refused to be quiet.’ I touched the engraving, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the night air.
I sat down on the grass, feeling the coolness seep through my jeans. I’d brought two things with me—a rechargeable vinyl record player, and an old record, one of his early albums. A fragment of his past. A precious piece of a world I could only touch through sound. It was old fragile, a worn at the edges, like it had been played a thousand times. And it had. By me. By countless others who had loved him, too.
“I know this is probably crazy,” I murmured into the dark, my voice swallowed by the vastness of the cemetery. “Talking to you like this. But I needed to be here… I… wanted to spend some time with you. Is that weird? Talking to a tombstone?” I let out a soft, nervous laugh. “It probably is. But I guess I’m a little weird, too.”
I set the record down on the grass beside me, brushing off some stray leaves. The cover was faded, but his image was still there, staring up at me with that defiant smirk. God, he was beautiful. I ran my fingers over his face, feeling an ache that transcended time and space. He was a siren call of lost youth and unspoken truths.
“I’ve listened to your songs a million times,” I continued, my my voice a fragile whisper. “And every note felt like you were speaking to me directly. It’s as if you were trying to reach out across the void, to touch something deep within me.”
A gust of wind blew through the cemetery, lifting my hair and sending a shiver down my spine. I wrapped my arms around myself, staring at the tombstone hoping for some sign, some acknowledgment But of course, there was none. Just the quiet hum of the night, the distant call of an owl somewhere in the trees.
I pulled out the portable record player I’d brought with me, setting it up next to the tombstone. It felt right, like a small tribute, a way to share this moment with him, even though he was long gone. I placed the vinyl on the turntable, carefully lowering the needle until the familiar crackle of static filled the air.
And then, his voice. Rough, and poignant, I closed my eyes, allowing the music to envelop me. The opening chords of one of his ballads… Each chord, each lyric… A life lived with fierce intensity. I let it wash over me, leaning back against the cool stone of the grave, feeling the weight of every note in my chest.
The song played on, a haunting echo of love and loss, of a life lived too fast, too hard. And as I listened, I couldn’t help but feel like in some strange way, he was here with me, his spirit lingering in the music that was still very much alive. Bridging the gap between this world and the next.
When the last note faded into silence, I stayed there, staring at the tombstone, the record still spinning on the turntable. “I think I’m in love with you,” I said, the confession hanging heavy and sounding foolish in the quiet night. “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I am. Even though I never knew you, not really.” Locked my eyes onto his name on the grave stone and stayed like that at least for thirty minutes.
Another breeze swept through, cold and sharp, as if the night itself was responding. Telling me to snap out of it, it was time to go. I stood up slowly, brushing the dirt from my jeans, and packed away the record player, my movements heavy with reluctance. I didn’t want to leave. Not yet. But I knew I couldn’t stay here forever.
Before I turned to go, I placed a hand on the tombstone, the cool marble solid under my palm. “I hope you found peace, Caleb. I really do. I hope your spirit is somewhere serene. And maybe… maybe we’ll meet somewhere on the other side. Until then, I’ll keep listening, keep loving you in the only way I can.”
With a final, lingering glance, I walked away, the shadows of the cemetery closing in behind me. As I left, I couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere, somehow, he heard me. And in that moment, that was enough.
