Soul

Three Doors down and to the Left. That door hasn't been opened for a while now. A year to be exact. We lost her and with it our homes warmth; our homes light. Her whole essence now faded.

I tiptoe past the walls that once held stories and laughter, to the door that's now dulled and dusted. The golden handle once polished by use has now gone pale and lost its purpose.

I place my hand tenderly around the knob and twist it cautiously, as if it would break. The hinges creak in protest as the door inches open slowly. I squeeze through the opening as not to strain the tired hinges any further. The sight before me is solemn.

Her studio was once a bright place of wonder; Adventure. The room smells of old ink, varnish and dust. I know I shouldn't trespass here. My father would be furious. This was her place. As she left it. I move to the large window that dwarfs the room in comparison. The curtains have been drawn closed for so long. Rays of light force their way into the room through cracks in the old and worn fabric.

With a deep breath I throw the curtains open. Dust scatters and floats weightlessly around the room. The light finally let past the barrier. The symphony of pinks, golds and purples dances through the particles making it almost appear to move. To dance. The furniture that had been hidden away glowed life buried treasure.

The cold night air begins to be consumed by the warmth the light brings with it. I journey past the skyscrapers of books trying to find it. The one thing that makes me feel close to her. As if she's just an arm's reach away. Moving through the seas of clutter her gems and jewels shine in their new found light.

A Moth flies from the large mahogany piano. It dances in the air before landing at my destination. Her music scores lay disorganized and messy. Much like she could be. My stomach churns as I remember my father's words. "This is her place as she left it. You don't come here."

Rebelliously, I force my father's words to the back of my mind. I take a pile of the forgotten scores. Doomed to the fate of being lost and forgotten. One in particular takes my attention. She composed it before she unwillingly left us. Her last song. Her working title "Soul" is sprawled across the top in her perfect cursive. She had said it was for me. Specifically her wishes. That she wanted my soul to be rich with life. My life to be full of adventure and joy.

Looking up I see the cupboard. The one my father doesn't know I've opened many times since she left. Inside there's a black case that holds my favorite treasure. I open the cold metal locks. The clicks echoing through the room like an amphitheater. The reddest of Rubys is revealed. The varnish makes it shine vibrant. The smell of rosin fills the air. Her violin.

I place it upon my shoulder, and put my chin on the rest. The way she taught me. I straighten my posture and ready my bow. I place my fingers tenderly on the string; playing the nots that were made for me. The melody fills me with warmth. As the sun continues over the horizon I can feel her presence. As if all I had to do was turn around. It fills me with warmth, love and passion. Like the warm embrace of the mother she was. And eternally will be.