The girl next door who plays the piano, begins her music.
As her fingertips settle upon the ivories, I allow my mind to wander. Not to far off places at first, just to the end of the garden, stood between two lonesome oaks who, despite one another, always seem sad and companionless this time of year. Perhaps it is because they have lost all of their leaves yet watch the elder in the distance boast blooms of green. Jealousy marked in the ashen brown bark as shoots of wheat stretch upward, yonder, in the field over which they stand vigil.
I climb the fence, nettle wounded, as the piece she plays begins to build, houses and forests in my mind. The wheat becomes scrub and I stand upon a heath or a moor; a place which reaches far against every corner of the sky. And I breathe, out the sadness of the oaks, and in the purple of the heather and brush. I breathe in all the colours of the wild…
… until I hear the sea. Wave upon wave of salt and sand and the line of sky meeting the swell – the tempest of bubbles beneath a placid, foreboding stillness, concealing a riptide. The shore also tells lies – footprintless. A peacefulness which leads me to contemplate the water beneath. The headiness. The rush of blood, nymphs and Neptune. Life and death all tumbled into one final spin. And I remember the oaks and their stillness. Their stuck-ness.
And her chords call me home – one by one, each black and white key. I am home, away from the sea, much closer to the wheat and the oaks; who, in a few more days of Spring, will begin to wear the smiles I have so sorely missed.
Prose: © Kristiana Reed 2020