Dear Frankie

A mother clears out her son's room and finds a folder full of forgotten lyrics.

Dear Frankie,

I’m sitting here on the edge of your bed, or what used to be your bed, I suppose. I’ve finally started the "big clear-out" we’ve been talking about for years. It’s strange; even with you living just down the road with Susan, the room still feels like it was waiting for you to come home from school. Today, the dust has been disturbed.

I found something tucked right at the back of the wardrobe, underneath that old amplifier. It’s a folder, the green one, bursting at the seams, containing all your songs. The ones you wrote when the house was perpetually vibrating to the sound of you, Michael, and Joe.

I spent an hour just sitting on the floor, turning the pages. I’m sure you still remember every word, don’t you? They were so much more than just "silly songs," Frankie. They were truly good. They brought back such a flood of memories for your dad and me that I don’t mind confessing they brought a tear to my eye. Your dad, in his usual way, insisted it was just a bit of grit from the loft hatch, but I saw him lingering over the photos from the Cowstable gig for a long time.

Do you remember that first show? You three were so talented, yet so terrified. I can still see you standing by the stage door, looking like you’d rather face a firing squad than the promoter. I didn't mind going up to get your money for you; I was just so proud to be the mother of the lead singer.

And then there was the "Battle of the Bands." You and Michael standing there in those ridiculous, wonderful leather outfits, realizing the lyric sheets were still sitting on our kitchen table. You "winged it" with such style, Frankie. I remember looking around the hall and seeing all those girls watching you, you were the king of the world that night.

I’ve often wondered if things would have been different if a talent scout had been in that room. You all had that spark. It’s still such a heartache to think of how it all ended when Michael died. He was such a lovely, bright lad. Do you still hear from his family at all? Or Joe? He was a brilliant drummer, even if he did nearly shake the pictures off our lounge walls during practices.

Well, the room is looking rather bare now. It feels a little less like "Frankie’s Room" and more like a guest space. I’m going to put the folder into a box, and the next time your dad goes up into the loft, he’ll tuck it away for safe-keeping. Or, perhaps, you could do it yourself?

Do you think you’ll be coming down this way any time soon? We haven’t seen you in a while, and the house is far too quiet without your energy. Your Nan’s not been well lately, either. She finds it hard to cope on her own now, and I think a visit from you would do her the world of good. You got your musical heart from her, you know, Lord knows I haven’t got a musical bone in my body.

I must sign off now. I have to catch the bus in fifteen minutes and I want to get this in the post on the way. Give my love and a big hug to Susan.
We miss you, Frankie. More than a letter can really say.

Love to you, as always,

Your Mum xxx
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