Song Cry

As I gazed into the stars, I thought of Father’s smile. The comfort that lay within his bearlike arms. His easy way of making me laugh. The wink he gave me before stepping off to battle, as if saying “Don’t worry, son, I’ll be fine.” Then running up the hill, hugging him tight before he left. Perhaps I should have said, “I love you Dad,” but I chose to remain silent, believing he was going to come back, like the dozen other times he had, with his head held high and victorious.

I recalled Mother’s tears and how I peered into her eyes. I knew before she even said a word. Father was dead. I wanted to cry out and scream, but instead thought of Father and all he taught me. The day he entered my room, a long, hollow stick of bamboo resting calmly in his hands.

“I want you to have it” he said.

I studied it perplexed. I couldn’t understand what was so special about it. There were small holes which ran along its side: a thin line of nostrils.

“It’s a flute,” he explained. “All you have to do is plant your lips on it, like this, and blow.”

He demonstrated, placing his lips on the grooves. A sweet sound emerged from what I thought was a plain bamboo stick, serene and beautiful, a timbre that set my heart a flutter and my mind at ease. I was drifting down a river, caught up in its current. My ears followed the riffs of the music, the tranquility in its verses and calm beat of its song. And then a shift of flow occurred. An intensity grew, louder and louder, as my heart began to pound. I felt an apogee drawing near, but as the music reached its violent peak, he stopped.

He placed a hand on my shoulder and looked me straight in the eye.

“I know I haven’t been able to see you lately. Always out of town taking care of you and mom,” he struggled to find the right words. “You know, son, if I could stay here longer I would. I guess what I’m trying to say is this: There are times when I’ll be gone, and it might seem as if the world has crashed from above. I know, it’s happened to me, it happens to all of us, and that is why I want to pass my flute on to you. Think of it as an escape from your troubles. If only for a moment. It’s easy to use, just practice as I showed you,” he paused. “I want you to have it. To use it. I think in the days I’m gone you’ll need it more than me.”

He stood up, patting me on the chest, and then slowly walked out to leave. Before he closed the door, he turned around and said,

“I love you.”

And so it happened, upon hearing of Father’s death, I rushed into my room, and for the first time since our encounter months ago, I chose to grab my flute. I had never used it before, so the tunes and melodies didn’t matter, but as I blew into its grooves, I could feel the gap left behind by his absence, the tears slowly but surely gushing through my song. The sound translating to how I would never see him again, gone forever until the day I died. It described the pain and anguish I felt at his loss, my insecurities and fears, and as I played, I came up with a song-cry...