He hadn’t wanted to record the song. When his producer suggested they consider the moody, romantic ballad, he hadn’t wanted to record it because it was old, and sentimental and, well, because it made him cry.

It’ll never go anywhere, he thought, thinking about the interpretations of other singers who had crooned the words so many times before him. It might have worked for Dean Martin or Marlene Dietrich or Charles Aznavour, but nobody would buy it in today’s tough, rapped-out world.

As the lights went soft in the recording studio, he glanced at the words scrawled on a piece of paper taped to the music stand in front of him. Placing the ear phones over his head, he adjusted the microphone and spoke into it, testing for “popping” of any words he might enunciate; discovering how close and intimate he could be.

“Are you ready?” the engineer asked through the earphones.

“I think so,” he said, to the master of sound seated at the control board behind a glass window. Was his producer there, too? He wanted to know.

“I’m right here,” came a familiar voice. “You’re gonna do great.”

“You’re gonna do great,” he thought …. How do they know?

How do they know what I’m feeling, or what’s on my mind? How can anyone know what it’s like to stand here, smiling and being nice to everyone when your heart isn’t just broken … your heart is falling through the bottom of your shoes and your shoes don’t want to move from the place where a blanket of Earth covering the face of one who loved you so much.

The sound from the control room was shut off, but he could see them talking. Were they talking about him? He knew what they were talking about. They were asking themselves if they should cancel the session. He was asking himself the same thing.

“Let’s take it from the top,” his producer finally said, and then music – beautiful, soothing music – was all he could hear.

Delicately, the piano played …. As delicate as the eyes of the one he had held in his arms as she flickered her last.

Steadily, the drum beat flowed through him, finding his heart … and leaving behind the heart of the one who had always been so brave.

Moaning, the saxaphone breathed over his skin like the breath of the one he had loved so much.

Gone … gone with her was the faith that he could do anything – anything in this world – the faith that he could laugh to the moon, that he could shake his head and spin around the mountains; the faith that – if he really wanted to – he could even fly!

It was gone. All of it. In the ash tray of his life, all that remained was a piece of paper: a piece of paper and the fragile words of the one who couldn’t follow no matter how much he wanted to.

“I wish you bluebirds in the spring,” he sang, remembering the one who gave him hope.

“To give your heart a song to sing.

“And then a kiss…

“But, more than this … I wish you … Love ….”

“Great, Baby! That’s Great!” his producer hollered as the music stopped and his mind reeled forward. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“But, I was … I was just getting into it,” he protested weakly.

“You were great,” the soundman said, bucking him up. “Just the right amount of emotion. Very believeable.”

“Yeah,” the producer pitched in, bobbing his head up and down like a plastic car ornament. “Believeable!”

He stood there, shaken.

“Are you all right, Baby?” the producer asked.

“Yeah,” the singer answered. “I’m OK.”

“Goooood,” the record producer said, smiling. “Now let’s take it again – from the top.”

Again, the music played. Again, he sang the words. Again, the feeling came over him.

“And in July, a lemonade ….” It was summer when they met at the dog show. She wasn’t much then. She was just a runt from a long line of champions.

“To cool you in some leafy glade ….” Maybe she was just a runt to others, but, it was only the best for his darling.

“I wish you health ….” The vet bills every year sure proved that.

“And more than wealth ….” Money? Who needs it, he thought.

“I wish you love ….” After all, the best things in life are free … Right?

“My breaking heart and I agree ….” Why does it take so long to learn that life is fleeting?

“That you and I could never be ….” Never be what?

“So with my best ….” Yes, only the best for you, my friend.

“My very best ….” We get the idea, yes.

“I set you free! ….” Uh-oh … Better get out the handkerchief and undry those tears.

“Take it home, Baby!” his producer gleamed. “You’ve really been practicing this one!”

“I wish you shelter from the storm ….” Please keep her safe. Wherever she is, please do.

“A cozy fire, to keep you warm ….” Please keep her warm, yes.

“But most of all, when snowflakes fall: I wish you love.”

It was a silly song, he told himself. It was a sentimental song. Who would believe it in this day and age of jaded sophistication, slick cons and broken dreams.

Through the tears, he could see her bright eyes that spoke every language known or ever written. Through the tears, he felt her belief in him no matter what. Through the tears, he made her promise to come back to him, if ever she could make a U-turn on that Rainbow Bridge.

Come back to me … “I wish you love ….”

I’ll know you and never let you go … “I wish you love ….”

If you can’t come back to me – oh, if you can’t, no matter how much you want to – wherever you are – if you’re in a pasture, in a palace, a desert Hell of burning fire or if you’re in a cool and leafy glade … know this. Know this one thing.

I will find you.

I will find you some how. Some way.

And until I do … until the moment I find you and hold you in my arms again … Silly One, Great One, Beautiful One who showed me how to keep my heart alive no matter what. Who showed me how to keep my mind when all those around me were losing theirs. Who showed me that an animal is more than an animal; more than a spirit joining me with a Greater Spirit; more than a dancer in the erternal flame of life.

I miss you.

I want you .

I wish you … Love!