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Tuesday, April 09, 2019

White Clouds

Place: first place in Creative Writing

Suddenly there is no doubt in my mind as those steady, slow notes begin to play—this is that song.  I wonder now how I ever could have forgotten, as the strength of a memory grips me.

My palms glide smooth and firm along the back of a woman, yet here I am standing on a sunny sidewalk next to a colorfully painted piano, watching you in amazement.  I feel that burst of glee again as I recognize the tune unfolding—a song I knew by heart without realizing I’d learned it. 

The strangers walking around us feel like old friends, and the leaves rustling in a gentle wind above me look impossibly beautiful. 

I feel it now in the room around me.  Large blinded windows cast a warm, diffuse glow around this luxurious room.  Sunlight dances in meandering patterns across the ceiling, refracted from the pond outside.  Small, bright specs appear like twinkling stars before disappearing and resurfacing elsewhere. 

The room is silent, save for that song.  It pushes on steadily, but with such an unhurried feel.  You played it even more enchantingly that day.  Here—the sound trails into silence that lasts just long enough for you to wonder if the song has ended—the artist and his audience are held breathlessly in the moment together.

Memories flash through my mind of conversations deep into the night, sitting outside in my car with my fingers going numb and the rush of honest connection bringing me to life in ways I didn’t know possible.

When sound fills the room again, it’s the same tune as in the beginning.  Is it quieter this time?  I want to believe it’s started over, that it’s a continuous loop and somehow we could have stayed there in that bright day forever. 

Calm hangs thick in the air around me.  Each moment seems to stretch past the confines of measured time… yet of course, I know it’s ending.  I lift my chin and turn my head away before tears can fall onto the table below.

Posted by Ariahaha on 04/09 at 08:02 PM | Permalink
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