4 May 2022, 21:54
Of Dreams and Music
The piano, Mariposa loved to play the piano, because it was her choice, it was one of the few choices she made under her mother's strict supervision. She sat down on the cushioned piano bench and took a deep shuttering breath. Mari's head was down as her fingers glided over the keys. She swayed along with the music.
Someone classically trained would sit at the edge of the bench, their back straight, with their arms relaxed and straight in front of them. But Mari wasn't classically trained, she was taught and tutored, and she lived by imitation. Mirroring what others around her would do, she learned from books, and words that spilled from the mouths of others, she learned from trial and error.
It was a lullaby, a song that she reminisced she heard in a now old and broken music box. Another thing that she had the leave behind, another thing that her mother tried to take away, another thing that she had to hind, under the loose floorboards of her bedroom.
She learned how to play the piano because in one of the few fuzzy memories she had of her father, she remembered that he loved the piano. She hadn't played in a while too busy with homework, studying, and trying to kick start her social life. Mari was hounded with unanswered letters from her mother and she knew that she would have to answer soon, but soon wasn't now.
As the notes echoed in her ears she was transfixed by the beauty of her fingers dancing on the ivory keys. Gold-rimed glassed framed closed eyes. The wispy dark hair fell in ringlets around a beautiful face moved with an unnatural wind. With each slight nod of her head, her spirit became almost an aura. These keys, to her, were a touch to a lover she had yet to know, had yet to meet.
There was a distance buzz in her ears, the warmth of phantom sunlight, she remembers a dream. A field of flowers, the laughter of children, a ghost of a family. It was warm, I was kind, it was everything that Mari was not. It was a wish that could never come true, not in this lifetime at least.
Almost as if she was asleep, possessed even, her fingers danced to the awaited climax.
The crescendo spoke, it said: Life. Everything in the room went away and it became only her. Everything around was a blur, a transcending experience. Finally, her finger danced gracefully across the last beautiful note hit, and the resonance fell. A breath of air was both replaced with joy and sadness. A longing relief lingered. She opened her eyes and bright light gray eyes stung with tears that threaten to fall.
Mariposa wiped at the tears that continued to fall no matter how many times she tried to wipe them away.
She cried silently, her glasses pushed in her hair and she buried her tear-stained face in her arms.
Mariposa Meadows hadn't played piano in a while but she still loved it.
Someone classically trained would sit at the edge of the bench, their back straight, with their arms relaxed and straight in front of them. But Mari wasn't classically trained, she was taught and tutored, and she lived by imitation. Mirroring what others around her would do, she learned from books, and words that spilled from the mouths of others, she learned from trial and error.
It was a lullaby, a song that she reminisced she heard in a now old and broken music box. Another thing that she had the leave behind, another thing that her mother tried to take away, another thing that she had to hind, under the loose floorboards of her bedroom.
She learned how to play the piano because in one of the few fuzzy memories she had of her father, she remembered that he loved the piano. She hadn't played in a while too busy with homework, studying, and trying to kick start her social life. Mari was hounded with unanswered letters from her mother and she knew that she would have to answer soon, but soon wasn't now.
As the notes echoed in her ears she was transfixed by the beauty of her fingers dancing on the ivory keys. Gold-rimed glassed framed closed eyes. The wispy dark hair fell in ringlets around a beautiful face moved with an unnatural wind. With each slight nod of her head, her spirit became almost an aura. These keys, to her, were a touch to a lover she had yet to know, had yet to meet.
There was a distance buzz in her ears, the warmth of phantom sunlight, she remembers a dream. A field of flowers, the laughter of children, a ghost of a family. It was warm, I was kind, it was everything that Mari was not. It was a wish that could never come true, not in this lifetime at least.
Almost as if she was asleep, possessed even, her fingers danced to the awaited climax.
The crescendo spoke, it said: Life. Everything in the room went away and it became only her. Everything around was a blur, a transcending experience. Finally, her finger danced gracefully across the last beautiful note hit, and the resonance fell. A breath of air was both replaced with joy and sadness. A longing relief lingered. She opened her eyes and bright light gray eyes stung with tears that threaten to fall.
Mariposa wiped at the tears that continued to fall no matter how many times she tried to wipe them away.
She cried silently, her glasses pushed in her hair and she buried her tear-stained face in her arms.
Mariposa Meadows hadn't played piano in a while but she still loved it.
M.Meadows
Like moths to a flame, our deaths would be bright.
speaking hex- #a64d79