Some love stories end with a funeral. Others begin with one.
In the quiet dawn of a spring morning, Jessi Colter closed the door of her Nashville home and stepped into the early mist, clutching a framed portrait of Waylon Jennings. He had been gone for years, but today—today she wasn’t leaving him behind. She was taking him with her.
“Forty-nine days,” she whispered. “Just like the Buddhists say. Forty-nine days between this world and the next.”
What began as a whisper to herself soon became a pilgrimage—one that would draw in fans, musicians, old friends, and strangers across the globe.
Her journey wasn’t publicized. There were no tour buses or press conferences. But word spread fast—Jessi Colter, the outlaw queen of country music, was on the road again. Except this time, it wasn’t for a concert. It was for love.
Stop 1: Nashville, Tennessee
At the Ryman Auditorium, she placed Waylon’s photo on the edge of the wooden stage where he once performed. A janitor, recognizing her, asked gently, “Miss Colter, are you doing okay?”
She smiled, eyes moist. “Better than you’d think. Worse than I’d admit.”
She sang one verse of “Storms Never Last,” her voice trembling in the vast, empty hall. The echo lingered like a ghost.
Stop 2: Austin, Texas
In the heart of Texas, she visited the little venue where they first played together. It had changed hands, become a café. But the old piano still sat in the corner.
She asked the owner if she could sit and play. He didn’t ask questions.
She ran her fingers over the keys, playing a melody only she and Waylon knew. The portrait leaned against the piano, watching.
A young woman approached her after. “My mama used to sing your songs. She passed last year.”
Jessi held her hand. “Then she’s singing them with mine now.”
Stop 3: New York City
In Central Park, she sat on a bench and looked out at the city they once explored hand-in-hand like teenagers, years ago. A street musician began playing “Good Hearted Woman” nearby. Coincidence, maybe. Fate, perhaps.
Jessi nodded. “He always did love this place—so fast, so loud, but he heard the music in it.”
Stop 4: Paris, France
In Montmartre, she wandered through cobbled alleys with the portrait tucked beneath her arm. She left a small lyric sheet—handwritten—at the base of Sacré-Cœur Basilica. No note, no explanation. Just a verse:
“If heaven’s a hill, then I’ll climb slow,
Waitin’ for you in the afterglow.”
A young couple, noticing her quiet gesture, asked if she was mourning someone. Jessi replied softly, “No, darlin’. I’m celebrating someone.”
Stop 5: London, England
At Abbey Road, she placed Waylon’s photo briefly on the famous crosswalk. A group of tourists applauded, recognizing the moment.
One older man approached her. “He changed my life, you know. His voice got me through my divorce. Your voice healed me after.”
Jessi nodded. “Then we both did our jobs.”
Stop 6: Santa Fe, New Mexico
The final stop was a desert chapel—small, unassuming. Jessi arrived just before sunset. She set Waylon’s portrait on the altar and lit a single candle.
There were no hymns, no crowd.
Only her voice, and the wind.
She sang the song they never released, the one they wrote in bed on a night filled with fear and laughter.
“And if I go first, don’t follow too fast,
Live every day, make each moment last.
But come find me, love, when the stars all align—
I’ll be waitin’ there with your hand in mine.”
When the last note faded, she sat in silence.
The 49th day.
And yet, Jessi didn’t cry.
Because this journey hadn’t been about loss. It had been about presence. About remembering that love doesn’t end when a heart stops beating—it just moves into a different room.
Later that night, she wrote a letter to Waylon, folded it, and tucked it behind the portrait.
It read:
“You once told me the only thing worse than dying was being forgotten. Well, honey, as long as I’m breathing, you’re still here. And even after that… I think the wind will carry us both.”
Epilogue
Jessi Colter returned to Nashville. The portrait now sits above her piano, flanked by dried roses from each place she visited. And every year on the anniversary of their wedding, she plays that unreleased song on her porch.
People still come to hear her sing. But those who truly understand know: the real duet never stopped.
Because some love stories don’t end.
They echo.
They evolve.
They live on.
Forever.
