onetwothreewhatever
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The hands played their tune, the fingers leaping across the piano. Faster and faster, as they danced their way through their tales of fantasy. The thumb banged once, twice on the middle C key. The left hand became louder and louder racing towards a crescendo. As the hands conformed to the musical composition, they merged and played in unison. The hands played as a team, recognising in their quest for perfection the need for equality. The music filled the small house, and filtered out through the open door. Its melodies singing to the rising sun and soft breeze that floated through the house. On a rambling porch, an old man sat and listened. His frail hands crossed on his stomach, in a position of repose. His thick bulky clothes, creating an illusion of solidness over a thin frame. However, a passing observer would be drawn to the expression the old man's face. The old man was smiling. Every morning the old man would drag himself away from his tidy, comfortable bed to listen to the dance of the hands. As the music played on, the old man smiled and allowed his mind to drift. The melodies and morning sun soaked into old, leathered skin, creating a timeless quality to the scene. He was remembering. The house had been a lovely natural weatherboard. Its tin roof had shone brilliantly in the sun, and against odds, had gleamed in winter. The front door was a door of character. Its rounded edges and solid panelling would stand to meet a visitor, as proud and strong as a sturdy old oak tree. But the memories were contained within. Loving arms widened in welcome, and the excited hum of his brothers and sisters would greet his entry. Lining the walls and shelves were stacked hundreds of memories. Happy, smiling faces frozen in a second of time. The smiling portraits were reflected in his surroundings. The sound of laughter, love and friendly banter. A younger sister pulled at his arm, demanding his individual attention. However, he walked on, absorbing the memories, the warmth of love. Heads turned, and joyful shouts followed his progress through the warmth. "William, you're back, you're back." For a second his progress was halted, as a lonely arm encircled and clung to his available leg. With an affectionate smile he, looked down into the face of his younger brother. It was only then he remembered the isolation. The pain and loneliness he had felt, they had all felt, for it was reflected in Ns brother's face. You can get lost in an overcrowded orphanage. The memories stopped abruptly. The old man shivered as the sun lost its power over darkness and slipped behind a permanent cloud. He shivered again, but this time it wasn't from the cold. The hands had slowed in tempo, losing their gaiety. The left hand had pulled itself away from the team of the hands, and was delighting in the playing of slow, ominous notes. The third and second finger proved their knowledge of sombreness, as they created the illusion of footsteps. Repetition. The sounds of slow walking suggested the hand's ability to wait, and listen indefinitely. The mood filled the small house and pushed its way out through the open door. The notes called to the enveloping darkness and cold wind that had crept through the house. In his chair the old man moved restlessly, his head shaking as if he was rejecting the noise. His frail hands twisted on his stomach, forming the shape of claws in his effort to exclude the echoing footsteps. However, a passing observer would be drawn to the expression on the old man's face. The old man was silently screaming. It had been the fire; the brilliant yellow and orange which had turned to red hot as it first licked and then ate away at the lovely weatherboard walls. As the fire attacked, its greed overcame its caution, the walls crashing down amongst the once brilliantly shining tin roof. He had silently screamed then, as the house of love and warmth had collapsed before his eyes. The wailing of lonely, forgotten children had surrounded and engulfed him, until he realised he was one of them, that his silent cries were at last spoken. The house of love and warmth had become a house of ash and the dead. It was now a house of misery. The memories played on in unison with the hands. And the old man sat on his porch with tears and memories running down his face... The sunshine and melodies the next day did not greet the old man. His porch remained neglected and empty, his windows shuttered and doors bolted. The old man had blocked out the sun and blocked out the music. For the old man decided to shut out the memories.
by Christina Murphy |
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