I hunt and peck the notes, like a wild child. Each note I sing with passion. So much emotion I find in my heart, in my voice, in my song.
Years ago I caught the last stringed high note, hit the pitch like a wild batter.
I rested, exhausted in body and mind. It was the kind of awkward silence felt by a stranger waiting for his curtain to rise.
I sang and sang, then fell into tiredness.
Descending into the ocean, to the plucking of the his cello, leaves on a breeze, falling among the trees.
I play the keys but no sounds. The strings of the baby grand have all been cut by garden shears, wire cutters.
In a red stemmed glass, I catch sight of my face, I lean into the droplets of sugar. Glass after glass, I know all the pain can be fixed. I just need a few new strings.
Me, the only one listening, the only one speaking, me, writing on my bed. Free, legs bent at the knees and bare feet sway in the air.
The silent baby grand leads to tunes on the laptop. My finger tips choose the letters I need.
I hear my voice again in my words. I whisper “I couldn't have done it without you...”
The baby grand sitting in the living, the glasses of wine, now I make decisions by myself, I do it, by writing, by dreaming, by myself.
It took years to buy strings and play again. I relearn the notes, from the wild children I know, I hear old patterns and start new ones.
All the while I look for the monster that cut my strings, that created the silence.
He was the one who took me to the dance, my ears cupped with his hands, saying “I couldn't have played the dance without you.”
“...But I could have done so much more.”