Our Own Music

Chapter 5; Lost

Light snowflakes were falling lazily from the sky and forming a slow and gracious dance. A thin coat of ice replaced the leaves on trees, forming a glittering halo around them from the pale rays of sunshine piercing through the thick white clouds. Air was chilly and everything was white, but it wasn't dreary; in fact, every first snow comes with this magical feeling of freshness and freedom, like the wind blows the heat of any worry along in its course. It was the perfect time to dream.

But Lance knew that, beneath every dream and fairytale, there is a dark truth that we simply try to hide under flowers. The petals of the dream were now choking him with distress, the simple misery that only the full perception of life could bring.

He didn't understand why the realization hit him so hard, nor why now, when everything seemed to go better. Whenever he was alone, he felt lonely, hopeless, dejected. It wasn't like that all the times, and he still felt happiness and exaltation, only, there was always this bitterness and guilt coming with it, ruining every laugh he could have.

He wanted to smile, he needed to smile, but the truth is, life is a bitch. It was his first winter, the first snow he ever saw, shouldn't he be thrilled, to run outside with his coat and tuque, to try to catch a snowflake with his tongue and to throw the powdery substance on his nephews, giggling at every steps he took on crunchy snow and making a snowman like the ones that had appeared in his neighbour's yard?

Lance remembered how he and Hunk had stepped outside after their shift at work and just froze, confused, as the landscape had turned from red and yellow to a pure white in the matter of hours. They had stood there, eyes wide, watching, as Hunk said, "the sky crying its clouds" for a few minutes, before jumping straight into the action, laughing from sincere joy and soft fulfillment. Lance had watched fondly his nephews scream out of excitement, absolutely thrilled to touch something as weirdly soft and light, but cold and humid as snow. It had been enchanting, it had felt right.

But then, just as these snowflakes, his mood fell down. And it didn't just fall gracefully, it crashed, as if, right in the middle of flying away from all his worries, the rope holding him down tightened up so brutally that he had been sent directly to the ground, like an elastic.

Around him, even the simplest thing, like the colourful Christmas lights that people had been putting up since the first of December, or like Christmas carols, reminded him of home, of what he missed from there. These were the things that he would probably never see again, feel again, live again, and it hurted so much just to know... They had planned on coming whole in America, so why did he feel so empty?

The atmosphere was filled with excitation and love; suddenly, in the middle of nowhere, someone could burst out laughing or jump under mistletoe and kiss their loved ones, friends would walk around the shops, grinning like fools and mock each other's childish joy in friendly manners, and kids were running everywhere, high on chocolate and on simple happiness. All of these just reminded Lance how sad he was, how lonely, without his complete family. He loved his brother and his nephews, and Lisa, but there wouldn't be a real feast this year. Nor any other years, if America persisted in ignoring their distress.

But he couldn't let himself get dragged down by despair, he told himself miserably. At the moment, his brother was on a fare, Lisa was on her shift and the kids were at school. He didn't have any lesson todays, and he had to be at the restaurant only for 1 p.m, so there he was, holding a lifeless guitar in his hands.

In fact, in wasn't the guitar that was lifeless; an instrument always has a magical aura, that can only be seen by their owner, by a musician. But that's the thing: Lance wasn't a musician. He didn't even have enough money to own things, and he still didn't know how much did his family pay for such a valuable item; that, maybe, was what stopped his hands. The guitar wasn't lifeless, he was.