Introduction
Sitting by your grave today, Loretta, I brought old Trigger with me. My fingers found the strings, and as I strummed an old tune, the memories came rushing back—especially that night in Nashville. I can still hear my voice on the phone after 30 years apart: “Loretta, I have this song. I think it’s ours.”
That night, there was no audience, no blinding stage lights—just you and me. Two old friends. Two legends with guitars in hand. When we sang “Lay Me Down” together, it wasn’t a song about death—it was about peace. The peace that comes after a life fully lived. I told you we were like two stars on different orbits, always looking at the same sky. You smiled—that unforgettable smile—and said, “And tonight, Willie, those orbits have crossed.”
Today, I sang it again for you, Loretta. The orbits may be far apart now, but that moment when they crossed will shine in my heart forever.
“Lay Me Down” has always felt like a quiet, sacred conversation—one only we could have. In the music video, you sit in your dressing room, strumming, while I stand on the stage of an empty auditorium. No effects. No spectacle. Just the truth in our voices. It’s as if the world faded away, leaving only us and the song.
When we sang, “I’ll be at peace when they lay me down,” it wasn’t sorrow—it was acceptance. It was gratitude. It was looking back at a life filled with childhood memories, laughter, tears, and broken dreams, and knowing we wouldn’t change a thing.
Our voices, worn and weathered, carried the weight of years—something no young artist could imitate. This wasn’t just music. It was a testament, a love letter to the lives we’d lived and the bond we shared.
In a world too loud, “Lay Me Down” remains a soft, eternal whisper—our final duet, and my forever goodbye to you.