How long would Leanne let her live alone? What if something happened…
The thought of slipping out of her mind, no longer being in control of her life, of possibly forgetting what that life was, of maybe not knowing how to buckle her shoe, or even knowing what a shoe was sent a shiver of fear and dread so hard down her spine that she gasped and hugged her guitar closer.
Eleanor hadn’t given herself time to process what the doctor had said. On purpose. But quiet spells like this, where she leaned into her fears, let them come to the forefront of her mind, threatened to ruin her day, week, and the rest of this concert.
So, instead of joining Shep and the others for their autograph session, she wandered. Drifted past a tie-dye stand, a booth selling incense and handmade candles, and a teenager balancing a tambourine on his head.
Roxy yipped from her bag, tail wagging as if to say, “Finally, some fun.”
The dog had been a surprisingly great companion—patient, quiet, and oddly intuitive—but even Roxy was getting fidgety. They hadn’t stayed in one place long enough to let the dust settle. Open mic nights, dive bars, grassy fields under the stars. The road had become a rhythm Eleanor loved. But now the tempo was changing.
Eleanor had felt it when they’d crossed the border into New York yesterday. A heaviness in her chest. Like someone had draped a wet wool blanket over her shoulders.
The weight of expectation.
Of reality.
Of a life she’d never quite chosen but had waded through for decades.
And just like that, it was pressing down again. The floral wallpaper. The casseroles. The “How was your trip?” phone calls she didn’t want to answer.
Eleanor wove through the spirited crowd, her eyes scanning the mess of humanity that had gathered like a vibrant tide at the world’s edge. Tie-dye T-shirts and army jackets. Buttons that said “Make Love, Not War.” Necklaces strung with beads and shells. Protest signs tucked under armpits or held aloft between sets. The spirit of Woodstock wasn’t just about the music—it was about rebellion, healing, and defiant joy.
Would Leanne and Nora be here like they’d been in Atlanta? She’d felt bad rushing off but didn’t want them to drag her home just yet. Let her finish this summer out on her own terms.
She paused in front of a henna artist’s table, her eye catching on a stack of hand-drawn designs curling across yellowed pages like ivy. Intricate mandalas, sunbursts, and—what was that?—a treble clef nestled in a tangle of vines.
“Thinking about getting some henna?” The artist brushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. She looked to be maybe twenty, barefoot, her hands already stained with designs of her own.
“Yes.” Eleanor smiled, tapping the sketch of the music symbol. Wouldn’t Leanne have a fit if she saw her with a tattooed hand, even if it wasn’t permanent? She could already hear the scandalized gasp and see the hand flutter to her pearls that she wore like a collar, keeping herstrapped firmly in her housewife world. Although, she hadn’t looked like that when Eleanor saw her. No, her daughter looked as if she’d had her own revolution this summer, and the idea made her smile. “I think I’d like this one. Right on the top of my hand.”
“Great choice,” the girl said, reaching for the applicator. “Music’s a universal spell.”
Eleanor offered her hand, palm down. The paste was cool against her sun-warmed skin, a soft tickle as the girl began painting the curling design in deliberate strokes.
The henna artist hummed some nameless melody, sweet and low, and asked casual questions about Eleanor’s experience so far. Where she was from. What bands she’d seen. If she was with anyone.
And for once, no one recognized her.
How oddly refreshing.
No “Mama Lightning!” No requests for autographs or photos or “Tell us what it was like on tour with Shep Moon!” Just her and a stranger, and the gentle art of being human together.
“You’ll want to let it dry before you touch anything,” the girl said, inspecting her work. “It’ll flake off in a few hours and leave the stain behind. Looks good.”
Eleanor stared at her hand. The symbol glistened in the sunlight, a declaration inked in temporary permanence. “Music’s always been my truest part,” Eleanor said softly. “This…is lovely. Thank you.”
“Peace and love, Grandma,” the girl said with a wink.
Eleanor laughed and she stood, stretching her stiff joints. “Love, my dear,” she said, her voice warm, “is the only revolution that ever worked.”
And with that, she slipped back into the tide of the crowd, her henna-painted hand lifted gently to her heart.
With each step toward the tent, Eleanor’s thoughts grew hazy, a strange fog closing in. One second, she was walking confidently, therhythm of the music pulsing beneath her feet in an unspoken map of the grounds. The next, she wasn’t sure where she was.
The crowd had thickened, bodies connected in a prism of sweat and color. Bare shoulders brushed against her skin, arms lifted to the sky, blocking her view. She couldn’t see the tent anymore. Couldn’t see the band. Could barely hear herself think over the roar of the crowd and the drone of an electric guitar.
Her breath hitched.
