Finding the Pure Note

The World of Eternal Nothingness... Then Impossible Wonders

Eight Years Ago

Sunlight trickles through the canopy above and casts its gentle warmth across mum and dad, through them, until I can feel its tenderness on my cheeks. That light is silenced, if only briefly, as their faces meet, lips teasing. It's a moment I want to relive a thousand times—to just film this moment, pop the tape in and never stop rewinding to experience the sweet beginnings. That would be pure bliss.

Their moment passes, as such promises do, and I find my smile dissipating, my lips drooping, dragging now; how long until they're so full of life like this again? How long until... Until dad has to go back to the hospital, get the stupid endless checkups, and be told not to worry. I wish they would stop saying that. It's impossible! It's like telling a dog not to bark, a politician to stop making false promises, or—or the Queen to give up her crown—they're gonna freaking panic!

Dad catches my frown, and he moves over now, sunlight filtering through the green as his backdrop. He stops before me, scruffling my hair, as usual, and then he falls to the blanket, narrowly avoiding the basket of food. Mum strolls over to join us, dazzling in her summer dress, lavender flowers forming an intricate pattern, transforming a simple white dress into a piece of art.

She sits with more grace at my left, holding her legs to the side, before brushing a lock of hair from her eyes and offering me a rosy grin. I smile at her and then turn back to dad, laughing as I see half a scone stuffed into his mouth. He says something, but it's lost in the cacophony of a crammed mouth uttering disjointed sounds. There's a high-pitched scream somewhere to the right, and we all glance over quickly.

Hunter is laying at the base of a tree, his palm pressed into his forehead like he's realised something bleedingly obvious. But then his face turns crimson and mum unfurls herself, sighing before hurrying over as the waterworks start.

Rolling my eyes, I reach into the basket, cracking open a can of lemonade, slurping greedily whilst trying to ignore the whining of a little brat I'd rather not be associated with right now. I could see a few guys my age over by the basketball court staring, and I feel my cheeks burn up. Yeah, because it's important to look cool when you're having a family picnic in the park, your dad littered with scone crumbs and grinning in that silly way dads do, and mum shaking her weeping three-year-old son, while you sit there in the middle of it all, a ten-year-old with something to prove.

The sobbing gets louder as mum approaches, and as she sits down next to me, I find myself making a pouty face dad's way. Dad catches my distaste and reaches over behind him, pulling out his guitar from its case, sure to take extra care, and I watch as his fingers brush gently over the signature, as they always do. I think this is dad's most treasured possession. But then again, I've seen him do the same thing with beer bottles.

He strums out a few chords without saying anything, and then when he finds a rhythm he can nod his head to, his eyes dart up and down from the strings to me, and I know what he wants. I study his fingers with a hawk-like gaze, and then when he ties off his melody, he carefully hands me the guitar, putting the strap around me reverently like he's presenting me with a medal.

Licking my lips, I make sure my fingers are in the right positions, close to the fret, and then I feel dad's hands on my shoulders, pushing them down.

"Relax, there's too much tension there. It's like you're going to break into a rock solo." A spark passes across his eyes. "That mightn't be such a bad idea. Buuut you're still a beginner."

"What's bad about a little tension?" I ask, pouting my lips.

"Well, not only will you make it easier for yourself, but it helps your fingers stretch as well. Imagine that your fretting hand is nailed to the neck, and then just let your shoulder and elbow drop. A relaxed player is a better player."