by Brandon Bird
fingers began to speed up, finding the keys that she felt would speak her heart. As she played, all the memories of her friend came rushing back in. She hadn't played her heart where anyone could hear since her friend had died. When he died, she kept her heart felt music to herself. She had quit piano lessons when Andrew died, but after she began to come back to music, she took up music class. But she treated it like any other subject in school, learning just what was needed to get by. She was afraid to let her heart out to anyone for any reason, for four long and painful years without the one person who truly understood her. The one person she wished could hear the song of her heart, the grief that lay within, would not be here to listen.
But now, as she played, she was finally releasing all of the memories, the thoughts, the feelings she had stored up for so long, and turning them into music. As she continued, her fingers became light on her hand, moving across from key to key faster, the notes quicker, the music could be heard as anger and frustration, pain and distress. This was her song, the music she felt of her life, the music that, if she were to break this moment, that she would hear to speak her life. For the first time, she began to play it.
And as she played it, she lost focus of all that was around her. All she saw now, was her world, the darkness and feeling of being alone. The scene of when she found out Andrew had died, and the long waits she had sat by the door or in her room, waiting for him to come back. The pain she felt, that she never truly let go. She had never truly accepted his death. Part of her was mad at the world for taking him away. Part of her knew it wasn't on purpose, but she still wanted to be angry at the world for taking him away. For taking away one so precious, filled with life and talent, that could give far more to the world than anyone she knew ever would even attempt to do.
She thought of the chaos of the world, and how it likes to take and take, but never give. How it took Andrew's life, but what did they give in return? A funeral, with some nice words, but the words weren't enough. She was nine at the time, and she wrote and read his eulogy, but even that wasn't enough. No amount of words could ever speak his life well enough to define him, or his affect on her life. Notes of anger played on the piano as she thought about this. 'How could they be so stagnant, to think that a regular old funeral was good enough to honor the death of a child? That a funeral with just words would ever be good enough for any life period? Life is far more precious than that, but they don't know how to honor a death. He deserved a great musician at that funeral. He deserved to at least have his own music played at his funeral, but he had never been recorded, so they had nothing from his work!'
He never learned to read music, he just played with his heart. And that is one of the reasons why Philomena waited so long to get back into music. Whenever she heard music, it touched her heart, which made her feel like she was being struck with an arrow, straight into her heart. But when she finally allowed music back into her life, she wanted to learn everything about writing it as she could, so that she might be able to write what she could remember of his music. She still had moments where she could hear what he played. Sometimes these moments were long, sometimes short. Usually they started up when she danced to music, reminding her of when she first began to dance to music, dancing to his music.
She wanted to bring back to life what he had done, so others could hear. But as time has gone by, it became increasingly difficult to keep this goal in mind. The pain hit her harder and harder, making her want to just quit, and drown in a sea of music, never to resurface again, so she would never have to remember what happened, that she would never have to feel pain in that ever again. Though she knew deep down, if she drowned herself in music, eventually the music would remind her again of what happened.
The music began to turn from anger and frustration, to sadness and depression. Many long, slow notes as she calmed a little more. As Rachel stood outside, hearing the music, she was amazed. She had never heard anything like this. She was moved by the music. She could feel the emotions of what Philly was conveying, and a tear came from her eye. Even if she didn't know why Philly had those emotions, she knew they were there, and it touched her deeply, as they touched her own deep down feelings from her own life.
Philly played the sad music, and saw in her world, the scene of viewing Andrew's dead body. How there wasn't much damage on his face, as most of the damage was on the rest of his body. She was now glad that they did show his body before the funeral. To be able to see his face one last time like that.
The music began to become a little more peaceful now as she thought of how glad she was that they let her see him one last time. She saw in her world, as she continued to play, his peaceful face. Not when he was laying in the casket, but as he played his violin for her. She remembered her joy in seeing him, in being there with him, in hearing his music. Strokes of her fingers now played notes of joy and sadness mixed together at these memories of being with him like this, and remembering his smile, and how he played his violin.
The next two minutes, the music slowly turned back to peaceful. Philomena was now feeling as if she had gotten a lot off her chest. She felt, peaceful, finally, after so long. She felt like she had truly let something out, that she had needed to since the accident. The notes did not show happiness, or joy, but they showed peace, which peace now flowed through her.
She began to see color coming back into her world, rather than a barren world filled with shades of gray and filled with nothing but darkness and despair and hopelessness. Colors of peace came and began to fill her world with light again. At first a ray of light, and then another, until the entire land she saw was in light. It wasn't much color yet, or much life, but it was a start.
The colors of the classroom, of the piano, began to fill her sight again as her world faded back into her mind. She finished playing the last few notes of her music, and then saw Mr. Caldwell sitting forward, looking to be quite enthralled with what he just heard.
“I have seldom heard as emotionally played and so wonderfully expressed a piece of music such as that which you just played. Where have you been during all this time you have been in my class? You have never played anything like this before. What has kept you from playing with your heart like this?”
At the words of praise, Philomena smiled nervously, both grateful for such praise, and embarrassed because of what might have been seen in it. She heard from his words that he knew it was expression of self. He told her to play what she felt in her heart after all. But she didn't know how much he could read into what he heard. And she was even more afraid of answering his question, but the peace she now felt from what she expressed, took away some of the nervousness, but only some.
“W-well... you see... I... I... I lost a close friend.” She began to say as she sat facing her teacher. She looked down, not able to bring herself to look directly at him. She tuned out the room, so it felt to her like she wasn't saying it to anyone, though she knew she was now saying it for someone to know and hear, she kept herself feeling like she wasn't, so that she could actually say it. And she did trust Mr. Caldwell, as she trusted her parents, but her parents didn't understand music, but Mr. Caldwell was a music teacher, so maybe he could understand a little better than anyone else she knew. She kind of wondered a bit why she didn't think he could understand. But she did not focus on this now. She continued to speak as Mr. Caldwell listened, and Rachel stepped quietly into the room to hear what her friend was saying.
“He was like a brother to me when I was growing up. He always played the violin for me, coming over three or four times a week, just to play something to have fun. He would play from his heart, and, and I would, well... I saw colors, and worlds when I heard his music, and I would dance around the room, as if I were dancing in these worlds. But, he died... in a car accident.” She paused and hesitated for a moment, then continued. “I guess I... I guess since then I... I died to music for, several years. When I came back to it... I took it as a class, just to do what was necessary, but... but I wouldn't play from
my heart anymore. I couldn't. I wouldn't. I felt that... if I did, I would, that I would break down into a million half notes and quarter notes across the staff, strung out for all to see, and I was afraid for that part of me to be seen. How could I let others hear my music, a music of pain and anguish and misery and sadness? How could I subject that to anyone? How could I let anyone be exposed to such? How could I let them see me as I was? I couldn't let myself be exposed like that. So I... I hid. I hid... I hid in doing just enough to get by. Though I want to one day write my friend's songs, that I remember, into music, to bring them back, but... it has been hard. And... I don't know if I can do that anymore. The pain is too great.”
Many of these things, she realized as she spoke, realizing what her true reaction was to his death, how it affected her so deeply, that it took her four years to realize them. She didn't know how she could blind herself to these reactions, but she knew there must be a reason. She looked up at Mr. Caldwell who was now standing over her, leaning over, with his hand on her shoulder. A few tears came from her eyes as she saw him there.
“You aren't alone, Philomena. I lost someone I cared for deeply when I was young too.” He pulled up a seat and sat down.
“Y-you did?” She asked behind the tears as Mr. Caldwell took his hand off her shoulder.
He nodded. “Yes, I did. I was about thirteen when it happened. I was taking flute lessons, when my mother, who had given me the flute, and gotten me into playing the flute, died of a heart attack. It hit me hard, and I stopped taking flute lessons. I went years before I would even look at a flute again. Too many bad memories, that brought pain to me. I wouldn't play music, at all. All I could do, was sit around, trying to get by in life, without putting much effort. I continued on with school, but I did just enough to get by. I didn't see the point in putting more effort into life any longer. All I could focus on, was how my life would end as quickly as my mother's did, and I couldn't bear the thought of that. It killed me inside.” Philomena looked at Mr. Caldwell, completely awestruck. She would never have guessed that Mr. Caldwell, her teacher for three and a half semesters, had gone through something so similar to her.
“What happened?”
“Well, after many years, I came across a musician that, I adored his work. When I listened to his music, I found myself in my own little world, and it was amazing. It took me some time to accept going back into music, but his music helped. And since, I have seldom had that experience, to be so drawn into a piece of music, that it would touch me so intensely, to bring me to that world where I could see and feel the music, to be brought into my own world to imagine what the music is telling through my own imagination.”
“When this world I felt while listening to his music, I began to idolized him more and more, for years. I got all of his albums and songs that I possibly could. And, one day, when I heard something he had said in one of his songs, it struck me hard. He explained that, his music came from his heart. He played with his heart. It gave me the idea to do the same. I found my old flute, and cleaned it. But I hadn't played it in so long, when I finally played it then, I was so rusty. I tried to play with my heart, but it wasn't coming out. I felt so disappointed, but I didn't give up. I spent an hour or two every day practicing, to get better. I would remember my mother as I played it, remembering how she enjoyed listening to me play, and played again, as if I were playing for her, as if I were a boy again, just playing for my mother. It made the pain easier. Never made it go away, but it felt like I was now honoring her death by playing the flute. As I played, feeling like this, I began to feel more and more free, and played more and more from my heart. I hoped she could hear me play, wherever she was. And I realize now, that she would never have wanted me to stop playing, she would have wanted me to keep playing for all time, to touch all who heard me play.”
Philly and Rachel were both dumbstruck. Rachel at hearing both stories of people she knew, that she never knew what they had been through before. And Philly at hearing that, she now knew someone that felt like she did, that understood her, completely. Or at least seemingly completely. She was without words. She turned to the piano, and began to play what she felt. Notes of joy and happiness came out into the air as she played, to show in music how glad she felt to finally know that someone understood her. It felt amazing, and strange to her. To know someone for so long, but not know them, but now suddenly know something as wonderful as this, to see such a connection.
Philomena and Mr. Caldwell would become good friends, and he would encourage her to continue to express herself, and helped teach her to take from the past, to make a brighter future. He taught her to take what is bad, or feels bad, and turn it into good music. He taught her to take anything good that happens, and turn it into good music. He taught her to take what ever happened, and just make good music. Play it, write it, what ever she could do at the time.
But most importantly, he taught her to hold onto the past, to create something wonderful from it. To take from the ashes, and to create a masterpiece to bring hope to others. To show that, no matter the pain, there is always hope, no matter the situation, there is always a chance that something good will come out of it.
Though as she grew up with this new dear friend, times would not always be easy. Many difficulties would come in her life, but also many joys. This day was what changed her life, and she would remember it for the rest of her life. She would never forget what her friend Mr. Caldwell told her to do, and she would follow in his footsteps, teaching others to play with their hearts, and to keep playing, no matter what happened.
She would find herself listening to violins again at some point, and at first, it would be extremely painful for her, but she would learn to turn that pain into fuel for her fire to live. She would turn that pain into a resource to live harder. And though the pain never truly went away in full, it would become easier as she remembered to live, to honor her friend's death in every way she could, to become more of who she was. And in this way, though Andrew had not touched many lives by himself, through her, his life, and his music, ended up changing thousands upon thousands of lives. Far more than even she had ever imagined he would if she had died instead of him.
########## The End ##########
Special Thanks to my friend, Andrew A. Buesing, for inspiring this short story.
And to God, who gave me a talent for writing. I wouldn't be here now if it were not for him.
And to Kelli Douty, for sticking with me, and being such a great friend and proof reader of my work, being able to encourage me, as well as point out things that need work.
And to Joachim Brugman (Q-arts on Deviantart.com here) for the cover art.
And to my family for being all that they are.
And to the rest of my friends through out my years, for being there in my life when you were.
You all have no idea how much each and every one of you have contributed to my life. Even I don't know how much each of you has affected me, but I do know all of you have.
And Thank You, for reading through. I hope you enjoyed what you read, and I hope to provide more for your enjoyment in time to come.
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