help

it was always the music

Music Lives Inside of Me
   
     It was always the music.
    Although my clarinet now sits in isolation, dust covering its handles and leather exterior, it has always been there for me. Although there are songs in my playlist that I haven't listened to in years, they'll always hold my special memories when I play them. Although I get busy trying to get paid for my work or accomplishing a skill, I always go back to the one thing that has supported me and continues to support me: music
    In the summer of 2015, I had to move a town over - and later, cross country- from my home in Marysville, Washington.  My life was a frozen slew of labor and disbelief, despite the warmth of the sun radiating into every crevice of the house. It felt as though there was a missing beat that was supposed to be played.
         As the conductor, it wasn't dread or remorse I kept perceiving, but something worse. I became a helpless onlooker of unfolding events as my clothes were folded into cardboard boxes, pictures removed from the nails they once hung by, furniture being dismantled by willing hands before my very eyes. My mother took control and became the complicit conductor at this point, ordering us to move and displace every item in our house. Mid-July brought an ensemble of wistful out-of-tune violins onstage as a rendition of Chopin began to shimmer through in hushed echoes. As magical as Chopin is, a lone solo piano eerily reverberated through the empty spaces of my house.
          All that remained in my room during this time was a CD player that my mother had gifted me for Christmas and an old queen sized mattress that still had a few odd stains on it.
          My mother was always busy packaging boxes and shouting orders to everyone in the house. Now, almost two years later, I understand the duress she was in.  She always had her ways with words and misspoken words would sometimes sting me to the bottom of my soul.  "Stop dreaming of your music and get to work," she would often scoff, pen moving fluidly across a mountain of paperwork. After her disparaging words I would  run upstairs towards my ever-emptying bedroom and dream of music in order to leave my physical state. My mother, the implicit conductor, would hold me at the end of the day, stroking my hair and pressing her fingernails into the palm of my hand while sweet words rolled off her tongue.  She would tell me "things will get better soon. We can do it. We will be out of here soon." And me? I always believed her.
       However, those words could never cure my insatiable loneliness. All that was left for me to do in the emptiness and desertion of my own solitude was play the music in order to soothe my soul, mind and body. For the rest of that muggy July, my iPod played continuously on that brand new CD player that my mother gifted me. Old snippets of Beethoven and Debussy stringed together, wheezing through dust free speakers. Each decrescendo and triplet eighth note kept me sane and gave me confidence, for a future yet uncertain, as the cool summer breeze would float in through my window. Each sunrise brought an uncomfortable enumeration of colors to my eyes.
    Time, like the innumerable number of  stars, is similar to an ongoing whole note that goes on for eight measures. It was the last week before we would be at the new house and the cardboard boxes were piling up in empty corners of the old house. Picture frames were transported with much care to the anteroom, all the bubble wrap eliminating walkable space on the carpet. My muscles ached often and my bones cracked loudly as I tried to wake up in the early mornings. Most of my efforts went into heavy lifting and verbal direction, hours slipping past with no noise other than that of the white, ongoing familiarity of my mother's voice. As the late night recessed upon me, pinks and oranges cascaded upon the blinds, as a clear midnight waltz played quietly. As the last night crept I could not help but think of my last visit with the therapist the next morning. I never shut my eyes unless it was to imagine the footfalls of the dancers as the arpeggio kicked beneath closed eyelids.
    It was five in the morning, when the familiar sunrise cast deep shadows across my eyelids for the last time in the house that had served as my best friend. I remember my window was opened, the swingset was dirty and rusty, yet it had so much appeal to me. 5:24: My last minute of solitude. The last bits of the sun rose above the horizon much to my discontent as my CD player's alarm woke me from my dreaming state. I had to face my reality for the last time in this special house. I was already dressed, my jean shorts and short sleeved t-shirt covered with a light cardigan. My hair was pulled in a ponytail, little hairs prickling the back of my neck. My leg felt numb and sore as my hands tingled from all the work I had done the day before. The rest of the day passed in a flash, to my dismay, as the last spare items were loaded in the back of the car. Our little family of four left the spare key under the rock, and my mother kept her own copy until the management could settle it in person. My two brothers looked gleefully carefree, hands flinging about wherever and eyes crinkling with laughter. I, however, sighed with sorrow, eyes teary and throat tightening. I couldn't let them see me cry. I would not show weakness in front of my brothers; therefore, I would not allow myself to cry for the house that had been my best friend during those special years. Pressing a rogue finger to the cold glass on my side, I drew a little heart in the condensation as I silently said farewell to that special home.
    I kept feeling a staring presence, as if they could see right through my innermost desires to stay at that house. There was an inner turmoil beneath me brewing. Taking that dreaded drive away from the second home I had matured in, I hated it! I didn't want to leave! My life was there, my friends were there and I wanted to finish my youth there! Sadly, music can take drastic turns in melody and incantation. My muse was taking me somewhere I had already been to. And that presence stared at me through the glass rear view mirror with dead eyes and a tight lipped frown. It was her, the implicit conductor.
           My mother would always yell through the thin walls to turn it down. I lowered the volume a few notches, chest heaving silently in time with the music. It felt like heaven for moments at a time. Somehow, after surviving three months of pushing boxes and transporting furniture, that heaven was finally over. I was in a new garden with new fruits to eat. There was a slight purpose for our being there, but now I take it with a better understanding.
    My big Fourth Act of Moonlight Sonata was finally over, the rallentando was finally washing in. Everything was perfect as the flutes and trumpets broke off and the clarinets played the final chord-
    Although sometimes I give up on music, music has never given up on me.
    It has always been the music.