PLAY IT AGAIN, SIS: Willie Nelson’s Quiet Tribute to Sister Bobbie
The late-afternoon light spilled in through the lace curtains of Willie Nelson’s Abbott, Texas farmhouse, painting the room in shades of gold and shadow. In the corner sat the weathered upright piano — its wood worn smooth by years of music, its keys touched by both joy and grief. This was the piano Sister Bobbie had played on countless nights when the world outside felt far away and all that mattered was the harmony they shared.
Now, the bench beside him was empty. Her absence was everywhere — in the dust clinging to the old sheet music for Laws of Nature, in the faint scent of her perfume that seemed to linger just beyond reach, in the quiet that filled the space between his breaths. Willie traced the faded notes on the page with a trembling finger, remembering the way she used to glance at him when a chord landed just right, her smile saying more than words ever could.
He sat down slowly, adjusted his hat, and began to play. The first notes were soft, deliberate — as if calling her name. His voice, frayed with age but steady with love, rose to meet the melody. It wasn’t just a song; it was a prayer, a memory, a bridge across time. With each chord, he could almost feel her presence again — the way her hands danced over the keys, the way she leaned into the music as if it was the safest place in the world.
The song wound on, tender and unhurried. Willie sang to the empty chair, to the photographs on the mantel, to the quiet that now kept him company. When the final note faded, he let his hands rest on the keys, eyes closed, listening for an echo that never came. Then, with a voice barely louder than the wind outside, he whispered, “Play it again when I get there, sis.”
As the sun dipped lower, Willie rose and walked out into the warm Texas evening. The air carried the scent of mesquite and earth, and in his hand he held a single yellow rose. The path to the small family plot was familiar — he’d walked it many times since she passed.
When he reached her headstone, he knelt and laid the rose gently against the cool granite. For a long moment, he said nothing, letting the summer breeze and the rustle of leaves speak for him. Then, almost without thinking, he began to hum — just a fragment of a melody they used to play together. The sound drifted into the open sky, mingling with the hum of cicadas until it was impossible to tell where the song ended and the evening began.
Willie stood, touched the top of the stone as if to seal the moment, and turned toward the farmhouse. Behind him, the wind moved softly through the mesquite trees, carrying the music — and the memory of Sister Bobbie — into the night like a quiet amen.