Nano
procrastination symphony
“The true beauty of music is that it connects people. It carries a message, and we, the musicians, are the messengers.”
Miranda Easter had only two rules in her household. The first was to never mention music in her presence. The second was to stay far away from the old elementary schoolhouse. For years, her daughter inquired time and time again why she was so adamant about those two rules in particular. Each time, like a broken record, her reply would remain the same: “People have many memories they wish to keep locked away, dear.”
Questions faded, but curiosity all but waned. Like a moth to a flame, her gaze would always find itself drawn towards the eerie overgrowth creeping up the school’s faded walls. Some claimed its rooms were haunted. Others mentioned a tragedy supposedly not suited for the ears of children. Yet what she felt was neither fear nor trepidation. As she stared through the dusty windows of the dilapidated rooms, she sensed only familiarity and warmth—as if someone close to her had once shared many laughs there.
A shower of dust greeted her as she gently pried open the door. She blinked away a sneeze, and eyes sparkling with curiosity scanned the room’s interior. Then, as if alerted by the squeaking of rusty hinges, a figure turned from its place by the window towards the newcome intruder. There the two stood, one in excitement mixed with fear, the other with a quiet, unreadable gaze.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice completely devoid of the slightest quaver of hesitation. Time and time again, her mother had warned her to ignore strangers. Especially those much older than she. But she was a mere child, one that viewed breaking a second rule as no different from breaking the first. The tall man’s stiff visage showed not even a hint of a smile, yet she felt her fear dwindle the longer she stared.
Without an answer, the man gestured towards a worn piano seat, and the old piano in the room finally caught her attention. She took one step, then a second. Gradually, she drew closer, and, with a deep breath, she gingerly lifted the cover with a creak. As if her actions were a cue, the man sat upon the dusty old seat, and placed his hands over the ivory keys. His long fingers began to perform an intricate dance, slowly, but with a deep devotion towards each note it produced. With each melody he spun, she began to wonder why her mother had come to hate such a beautiful thing.
Thus, starting from the man’s knowing nod, the trip she had made on a whim evolved into daily afternoon lessons.
A day became a week, a week became a month, and a month turned into three years. Without fail, she evaded her mother’s caution and made the daily trek to the old schoolhouse every afternoon. And without fail, the man would always await her visit in the tiny, old music room. He’d never grace her with a smile, but every lesson was spoken with care. Perhaps this was what it was like to have a father, she often thought.
However, nothing was endless, and her time in the music room was just as fleeting. Upon the passage of three years, the townspeople spoke of plans to demolish the old building. Naturally, their lessons would follow suit.
“Will I ever see you again?”
Before such words even left her mouth, the man only shook his head. “Today, this song will be our last.”
This time, he sat upon the piano seat alone. He didn’t ask her to accompany him, nor did he play each line for her piece by piece. It was like their very first day, where he played as a means to show rather than instruct. What was different, however, was the gut feeling that she needed to commit every stanza to memory. It was also the only piece he had played with such emotion and vigour.
“What’s the name of this song?” she asked.
“You’ll be the one to know it best,” he answered with a gentle smile, the very first—and last—in three years.
Mulling over the familiarity of his smile, she hadn’t noticed the man pushing her towards the classroom door until her feet had already reached the door frame. Then, she whipped around, the shock of a sudden realization etched on her face. Yet the moment she turned to face him, the man had completely vanished, as if he had never even existed.
Nevertheless, she repressed her bitter feelings of regret. For there was one whose regrets were far greater than hers.
For the last time, she bid farewell to the music room that she, and many others in the past, had spent so much time in. With a determined heart, she trekked back home, and she stood by her mother’s side in the kitchen.
“Mom, I want you to listen to a memento from someone important.”
“It’s called…”
— Roy Ayers
Miranda Easter had only two rules in her household. The first was to never mention music in her presence. The second was to stay far away from the old elementary schoolhouse. For years, her daughter inquired time and time again why she was so adamant about those two rules in particular. Each time, like a broken record, her reply would remain the same: “People have many memories they wish to keep locked away, dear.”
Questions faded, but curiosity all but waned. Like a moth to a flame, her gaze would always find itself drawn towards the eerie overgrowth creeping up the school’s faded walls. Some claimed its rooms were haunted. Others mentioned a tragedy supposedly not suited for the ears of children. Yet what she felt was neither fear nor trepidation. As she stared through the dusty windows of the dilapidated rooms, she sensed only familiarity and warmth—as if someone close to her had once shared many laughs there.
A shower of dust greeted her as she gently pried open the door. She blinked away a sneeze, and eyes sparkling with curiosity scanned the room’s interior. Then, as if alerted by the squeaking of rusty hinges, a figure turned from its place by the window towards the newcome intruder. There the two stood, one in excitement mixed with fear, the other with a quiet, unreadable gaze.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice completely devoid of the slightest quaver of hesitation. Time and time again, her mother had warned her to ignore strangers. Especially those much older than she. But she was a mere child, one that viewed breaking a second rule as no different from breaking the first. The tall man’s stiff visage showed not even a hint of a smile, yet she felt her fear dwindle the longer she stared.
Without an answer, the man gestured towards a worn piano seat, and the old piano in the room finally caught her attention. She took one step, then a second. Gradually, she drew closer, and, with a deep breath, she gingerly lifted the cover with a creak. As if her actions were a cue, the man sat upon the dusty old seat, and placed his hands over the ivory keys. His long fingers began to perform an intricate dance, slowly, but with a deep devotion towards each note it produced. With each melody he spun, she began to wonder why her mother had come to hate such a beautiful thing.
Thus, starting from the man’s knowing nod, the trip she had made on a whim evolved into daily afternoon lessons.
A day became a week, a week became a month, and a month turned into three years. Without fail, she evaded her mother’s caution and made the daily trek to the old schoolhouse every afternoon. And without fail, the man would always await her visit in the tiny, old music room. He’d never grace her with a smile, but every lesson was spoken with care. Perhaps this was what it was like to have a father, she often thought.
However, nothing was endless, and her time in the music room was just as fleeting. Upon the passage of three years, the townspeople spoke of plans to demolish the old building. Naturally, their lessons would follow suit.
“Will I ever see you again?”
Before such words even left her mouth, the man only shook his head. “Today, this song will be our last.”
This time, he sat upon the piano seat alone. He didn’t ask her to accompany him, nor did he play each line for her piece by piece. It was like their very first day, where he played as a means to show rather than instruct. What was different, however, was the gut feeling that she needed to commit every stanza to memory. It was also the only piece he had played with such emotion and vigour.
“What’s the name of this song?” she asked.
“You’ll be the one to know it best,” he answered with a gentle smile, the very first—and last—in three years.
Mulling over the familiarity of his smile, she hadn’t noticed the man pushing her towards the classroom door until her feet had already reached the door frame. Then, she whipped around, the shock of a sudden realization etched on her face. Yet the moment she turned to face him, the man had completely vanished, as if he had never even existed.
Nevertheless, she repressed her bitter feelings of regret. For there was one whose regrets were far greater than hers.
For the last time, she bid farewell to the music room that she, and many others in the past, had spent so much time in. With a determined heart, she trekked back home, and she stood by her mother’s side in the kitchen.
“Mom, I want you to listen to a memento from someone important.”
“It’s called…”
