Divinity

To a Wonderful Person and a Brilliant Spirit: You are embarking on a new chapter of your Life. May you remember always that some things in Life cannot be planned. And when all else fails – you are beautiful, and Beauty is Divine.

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         A heavy chord exploded in the middle of the night, rapidly succeeded by another and another and another. There was an intense fervor, a lust, a methodical madness about the progression that drove me from my bed. It happened almost nightly now. Hours later, his lonesome shadow would appear in my doorway and he would watch me sleep before he curled up on the living room couch in a fitful slumber. Tonight, he would not be alone.
         I sat up and placed my feet on the cold hardwood floor, tempted to bury myself under the warm blankets again. But the music compelled me to follow it. It was neither the sad, melancholy lament of a lost lover, nor the passionate outburst of a scorned and rejected suitor. It was a numb, robotic movement characterized by pain and laden with grief. It was the fretful wailing of a lost child searching for his mother, the haunting cries of the mother who finds the child dead only hours later. It was Fatalism at her finest.
         I shuffled down the dark hallway to the tiny practice room at the opposite end of the house. A narrow strip of light escaped under the crack of the closed door and flooded the hallway. The chords gained magnitude and momentum and blossomed into an unstoppable force. As my fingers grazed the doorknob, however, they dissipated altogether. I slowly turned the silver handle and pushed open the door, cringing as it squealed on its hinges and disrupted the sacred silence. A whirlwind of his suppressed emotion struck me dumb as I cautiously stepped into the room. An overwhelming sense of fear paralyzed me as my eyes traced up and down his body slumped over the piano. He did not acknowledge me as I entered the room and all at once I felt as if I were an unwelcome, unwanted presence. I did not breathe, nor did I utter a single sound, for fear of what such a disturbance might render. I only slipped noiselessly behind him, resting my hands on each of his broad, troubled shoulders, and sliding them down across his chest in a loving embrace. I nestled my face in the base of his neck and felt his rattled, uneven breath. His hands trembled as he lifted them slowly to the piano and began to play. . . .

         


        I’ll never forget the first time I heard his song. Never before had I seen his face, nor did I even know his name. All I knew was that he played for me. I knew his Passion. I knew his Love. I knew his Creation – a binding melody that plucked the delicate strings of my heart and made it throb with an incomprehensible pleasure. His eyes lingered upon the hem of my gown as he played and they smoldered as they met my challenging stare. Every night I came back to the dusty bar to hear him and every night I would slowly work up the courage to speak with him. I planned each and every intimate detail of our discussion - each and every utterance down to where and when it was apt to laugh or to toss my shining golden hair over my shoulder. If I planned our meeting, it was possible that I could control it. His Song and his Spirit – his Passion and his Beauty – would belong to me at last. It was a hunt, a quest, an obsession. It was something that could never be, for Love is not a chemical equation. Love cannot be predicted nor conquered nor owned.
         He did not play the night that I planned to talk to him. I had waited too long. I had planned away all the time that could have been spent getting to know the man of my affection. He was gone. Forever. The bar mistress smiled apologetically as she told me that he left to “start over.” He went back to school to find a new career, something to keep a roof over his head. She shrugged nonchalantly, muttering, “He ain’t paying his bills from what cash he rakes in here every night. Passion don’t buy nothin’ anymore.”
         I left the bar that night in a dizzying state of emotion. The cold night air filled my lungs, spreading an empty chill down the back of my spine. The city bustled with last minute holiday shoppers who scuttled from store to store in a frantic attempt to find the perfect gift for their lovers and spouses. I walked on, lulled by the twinkling lights of the skyscrapers that filled the air like little stars dangling right above my head, knowing that somewhere in the city he was looking at them too.
         Weeks passed. Months even. It started as a vague sense of paranoia. For a mere fortnight, I dreamt of him and his raw, undulating passion. I could still see his fingers caress the ivory keys in a seductive dance that would rouse a heavy blush upon the cheek of the Moon herself. I could feel the rhythmic pulse of the blood flowing through his veins and marveled at the pronounced muscles and tendons that encircled his wrists and forearms.  In my sleeping hours, all I knew was him, and in my waking hours, all I felt was him watching me with that passionate gaze once more. I frequented the bar with some false sense of hope that he would be there. Only when I let go of my expectations did it happen.
         I was purchasing my first grand piano. The smiling salesman led me from grand to grand in vain. Nothing fit. I shook his hand disappointedly and prepared to leave when an odd expression clouded his features. “There is . . . one,” he contemplated, leading me to the back of the warehouse. Behind a mound of unfolded boxes She lay, and seated by Her side was He.
         I’ll never forget the way that he raised his eyebrows as he watched me walk through the door. I’ll never forget how the corners of his mouth turned upward in an amused sort of grin. But most of all, I’ll never forget his Song. Something about it had changed. He saw himself as a man that could have been – a musician who could have performed. He did not see his Beauty.

         He stopped playing, bringing me back to my senses. Tears lingered in the corners of my eyes. Only then did I realize that his song was whole once more. He took my arms and pried them from his chest, tracing each wrist with his lips and turning to face me. His mouth met mine and the world dissolved around us. It was the first night of our Forever.

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         Life has no regrets. Passion knows no limitations. A performance behind closed doors is equally as moving as a concert in the finest venue. Your Life my not solely consist of Music, but Music will always be your Life. And that, my Love,  is Beautiful.