Many Stories High

The Broken Mind of a Harp

I have been waiting for this night for months now, my entire life really. I have been practicing and rehearsing relentlessly. My fingers are callused and tired. Nothing will stop me from giving my best. Giving my all. Not even the traces of blood that peak through the band-aid on my right middle finger. I will be known as one of the best harpists to have ever played, no matter the sacrifices.

Playing the harp is a dying art and the thought saddens me. Us harpists are unique. I am idiosyncratic.

I have been mastering the harp since I was 7 years young. I am now 31 years old. My harp is my companion. Strange to think of an object that way, but the way some people speak about love, that is how I often feel when I am plucking.

The noises of the world, are silenced. The frustrations of the mundane daily life, melt away. The loneliness of no longer having a significant other, dissipates. My harp has always been my go-to. Some people write. Some people sing. Some people serial date. I play!

I am dressed in a long, elegant, dark purple, silk dress that glides with me as I walk. My hair is pulled back into a bun with a large crystal barrette. My make-up is heavy so my face won't appear to be washed out by the lighting of the stage.

Lyre has been polished and tuned to perfection. I named her Lyre years ago. She was my first harp and has been my only harp. My original love. My first love. Her strings are strong and reliable.

She suffered from a chip in her wood once, from being set down harshly and unevenly. I was so upset that I began to cry. When my teacher was setting up for a school concert, he must not have had a good grip on her. His apologies were not enough. He took her away and within a week, Lyre was repaired and back home with me where she belonged.

I can hear the roar of too many conversations being held in the theater. The sound of clicking heels and the heavy steps of men clash with the hallway walls. The echoes of canes and clutch purses battle one another for the need of gratified importance.

I practice in the air with my fingers in front of me. Preparing me for my moment to shine. My moment to be heard. My moment to be understood. I will receive the recognition I have always striven for. I will finally be seen. No one will walk past me unnoticed again.

I close my eyes and inhale a deep breathe filling my lungs as much as they will allow. My chest rises and I hold the air there for a few seconds to calm my mind. To ease my nerves. I exhale slowly until I have released all the air from my lungs. My chest relaxes and my breath returns to normal.

I am startled by a clash of cymbals, but there is no one back here with me. I blink my eyes a few times, then close them tightly. When I open them, I am no longer backstage. I am sitting behind my harp, in front of a mirror. I stand up to look at myself. I am in a pair of loose-fitting slacks and a shirt that reads, Eastman School of Music. My hair is in a loose ponytail and my face is free of any make-up. I am panicked and disorientated.

I rub my right hand over my face just to make sure I am awake and no longer caught in a fantasy. I am no longer 31 years old, but only 23 years young. Lyre is old and is splitting in a few spots. She is also missing a cord. She will be looked at in a few weeks. I am extremely careful with her so she won't suffer any more damage.

I have recently graduated from Eastman and am in the process of auditioning for multiple orchestras around the United States. I would love to play abroad. That would be my ultimate goal. Perhaps be the star of my own solo. To be revered as such, would be beyond an honor. Excitement fills me and happiness grows from within.

My boyfriend and I just split up because he was moving across the country and automatically assumed that I was going to go with him. He also thought that now that I have graduated, that I was going to give up playing and become the "housewife I was born to be." His words not mine. I lost my temper, which is something I hardly do. I could not believe the audacity in his confident remark. "That harp will never make you as happy as I can," he scolded me as I began to laugh at the look on his face when I told him to move on with his life without me. As he stomped out of my apartment, he tried to get one more dig at me, "That's why no one listens to the damn harp anyway." It will be years before I decide to date again.