Note 10

I’ve always wanted to play the piano. Even though I was young, my five-year-old self dreamt of playing those black and white keys with her tiny hands. I could make words merely by pressing a couple of irregular rectangles; I could make music.

•••

I cry when a song’s really good. I ball. My tears hit the base of my hoodie; my eyes: bloodshot red. I look like I’ve lost the one thing that loved me–a soul too empty to seek fulfillment. And in those moments I am nothing and everything all wrapped up in one.

•••

My grandmother’s best friend gave me a keyboard when I was in middle school. It lived under my dust-filled bed–it couldn’t fit anywhere else. I’d drag it out and place it atop my fuchsia comforter, dusting off the keys as I tried to make music by ear.

•••

I cry more than I smile. It’s cathartic. Smiling only involves some muscles. Crying requires your whole body. I like the feeling of shock running through my bloodstream, it’s beauty bubbling through cracked parts of me. It stings while moving end to beginning.

•••

Sometimes I could eke out a semblance of a song. I’d press unknown chords until I found a familiar sound, a peaceful blend. I felt those sounds more than I heard them–how they made my head tilt, shake, snap; how they always made my eyes sprinkle drops then flood valleys.

•••

I cry from my heart up. It’s as if the feeling hits my chest and rises to my eyes. After a short while, tears appear. They drench my face, my cheeks desperately trying to block them from my heart. And whenever I need a good cry, I play a song that reminds me of home.

•••

I know I never made a song or played one, but it felt like I had. I’m sure I invented several nonexistent chords and cracked a couple glasses. But, I’m even more certain I reproduced whatever helped fill my brokenness. That’s a pretty fair trade off. Don’t you think?