Prologue: initial remarks
Dal Segno, from the sign. I am a beginner, pushing intermediate, confused in how many times, to repeat the line? Will it be over when hands move in time without skipping up, over my critical concentration? Swinging, wrapping notes, music boxes scratch most often above middle C, the chests we keep our special necklaces, my garnet and gold earrings, diamond engagement set, green zircon cocktail ring, matched to little girl, red-velvet pitch, soliloquy of loves, my most admired are those I chose myself.
Coda mark. How many jumps on passes?
Even on an old, wooden bench with readers, I scratch my head, add my own penciled commands.
Four or five years, she really wasn’t sure, had never been great at keeping precise dates in her head unless they were birthdays—she knew all for her family and past lovers. For whatever reason these marks would be forever ingrained in her head, for what reason she was entirely unsure—was her giving to make others feel recognized and loved, or because doing so might mean she’d get the surprises she’d like to receive?
Manipulation of this kind, sacrifice of self to be wrapped beautifully by another in foiled sound collages, where one song rises while another falls and the wave of dissonance carries to electric pink clouds, effectively takes, one underground, swirling, a tiny ballerina who stands and spins only when the box is opened, and bottom wound.
Because she was so giving, many of her friends and family forget her birthday, rounded something up from around the house to give her, like the time her husband gave her bed pillows because he felt they needed them, a gift card her mother sent, the closest mall a two hour drive (one way), still, she always made a big deal, “thank you, thank you,” smile on her face. Accommodating forward head-yessing like the Hong Kong flight attendants who’d served her drinks on little trays, bowing each time they served.
In this epilogue, finale, how will my score be played back? I’d like to re-write the long score, plump the notes by pushing the peddle, a deeper sound, my own heart choosing to present myself Paris peonies and pleased songs to twirl to.
Photo Credit: TurboSquid/creative commons
