love - #3

- art by Cory Godbey

We take a drive down Balestier. I make an attempt at conversation.

“My mum plays the piano on occasion. It is the saddest sound in the world.”

My companion turns in the driver's seat and looks at me. Her gaze is warm and encouraging, but I am left feeling small. I do not think I have said the right thing, and fear that I have scuttled the conversation. Yet, I know of no better person to confide with. When I am with her, I feel the same way as when my mother plays.

Crying angels and warm skin.

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My mum came from a poor family which never had enough bread on the table. Inevitably, her love for music went unnoticed and unnurtured.

Never was she one to give up, however. Whilst in her teens, with a little money that she had earned through giving tuition, she bought a simple Suzuki guitar, spending the little that was left on lessons till they were no longer affordable.

That was as far as she got.

She then took it upon herself to keep her love for music alive through me; I would live her dream, as it were. Not only was I sent for violin lessons, she went so far as to take piano lessons with me.

I am now a fairly experienced and accomplished musician; my mother remains anything but. Her fingers were always gnarled and stiff with age and work. They were never meant for black and ivory.

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My mum plays the piano on occasion.

I turn to hide when she does.

Unresolved harmonies and hesitant notes, swirling in a gale of accidental accidentals. Wheels against iron, trains on rails, the screech of brakes on a hot night. A cold bath of shame and turpentine in song.

My mother's hope flying on crippled wings.

Then I am a fetus once more, tapping along against the soft insides of a womb.

It is the saddest sound in the world.

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