“What are you working on?” she asked, genuinely interested.
She had just returned home from the store to find her husband playing his guitar in the spare bedroom of their apartment. He was finally fleshing out an idea that had been festering for some time. She was eight months pregnant and looked beautiful — an irrelevant detail. “Got somethin’ new?”
“Me? Oh, uh…” he hesitated, not sure if he was ready to discuss the concept so early in the song’s development. “I’m writing a happy song about death.” He said it frankly, half-anticipating a wince at such frankness. Surely ‘death’ deserves a little less jollity and a little more sobriety. But she didn’t wince. Instead, her face took on an expression more akin to relief, a sweet relief, as if she’d just recalled a fond memory.
“I think I need a song like that,” she said. So he wrote a fourth verse just for her.