In grandmom’s house, if you look toward the window, there’s some haze and dust all caught up in the afternoon sun, suspended. If you move, your stomach moves a little, so you don’t. You don’t move so much. Maybe your breath is caught somewhere between your sternum and the back of your throat.
There’s a sheet over the couch and you imagine the shape of a body underneath that sheet, even in the summer sun. Even then, but there isn’t.
Now everything is still and caught in a frame on an old reel to reel. Click to one frame. If you move, you’ll move the air move the dust in the sun, move the earth and disturb the haze clinging to the memory.
black and white just one frame.
You remember and breathe. You remember to breathe.
There’s nothing else to do you know. You can’t do anything else you know so you glide to the darkening back of the house and lift the fallboard on the old piano because it’s just sitting there still. You think should I and then you think why shouldn’t I and you strike a random black or white key and that sound is sudden and wrong and plaintively right; it’s like a toothache and a wind and an inferno of two disagreeing vibrations that disturb the house to your very life.
And now they resolve, don’t they finally resolve to one note. You hear it just singing and singing and singing silently to your soul and you sense a long gone artist picks up the cello, between their legs, and bows in harmony one chord to that sound.
The frames move, and you’re here. You’re here now and you beg the cellist to never cease bowing. Please. Never pick up that bow from the strings ever again.