music, she said
thirty-six years ago,
as he walked into the room
and rested near her,
near the bed
her body called home.
that day,
the radio, old and broken,
gave sputtering sounds,
a final groan
then decidedly went
to rest in silence.
her forehead wrinkles
pulled into place
and her face acknowledged
that all things expire
in parts and in wholes,
slowly nodding.
he made gestures,
abrupt and busy,
promising her that song,
that he will buy another
radio, or a phonograph,
and several records
of her most favorite music
or perhaps,
others new to her ear.
he spoke disorganized fantasies
about nonexistent money,
luxurious instruments
and machines that no one
had seen in shops
for a while now.
finally silenced
by her smile,
he took his seat again,
tired in a different way
and looked at her,
tired as always.
he remembered again today
that she liked music
and loved to hear it,
waking up
or late at night,
soft when the world was quiet
and loud when her heart
began to scream
while she tried to breathe,
lying in the bed
her body called home.
he remembered today
that she had once said,
if i could hear this
after i have died,
it would be good.
he does not remember
what song it was.
he sat by her now
with closed eyes
imagining that once upon a time,
she had blown blue color
into the clouds from her mouth,
while the wind carried
the scent of her body
around the world
because it loved her
and she loved the music it made
when it traveled through her windows,
holding hands with the melodies
the hospital played
for the broken soldiers.
in her younger days,
she had taught children
how to sing, to play
and run about
in their bodies
born to move and move.
she had never
been so quiet.
maybe she feels the sun
shining still on her other half,
still on her bed
though in a different room.
he had gone to school,
and learned a bit too much,
some of which he'd forgotten
and some of which he used
to buy her new music
(the stores carry them now)
and he brought it with him
on this nice day
thirty-six years later,
but not too late.
she has been waiting,
patiently and still,
for him to play her a song.
and he did.
he played her a song.
and she listened,
half of her below the ground,
and half of her above the clouds.
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