Symphony Man

I believe in two things: Life & Death. What I have discovered about the two? They are both unbelievably far and incredibly close.

Symphony Man

The strings of the piano grow louder, strum, strumming the tune of the masked man. A candle 

flickers in the distance, tombstones rising from the upturned earth. Wriggling worms draw nearer. Voices of the damned rising above a silent reverie. This is the silence of the children, the flailing limbs of resting corpses. Rot. Oozing pestilence of unkempt flesh. Your deathbed, your soil ridden divan. Tip of the hat, your demise will not be commiserated. 

Condolences. Grievances. They usher you forward with offers of remembrance and fulfilling 

gratification. But these words are not for you, not your own to consider or accept. Poor student of reality. Have you entered a world in which you cannot escape? The coffin awakens near your side. Eyes like dusty marbles. Something you had expected? Considered? No, no she had swayed to and fro with the rest. A flower in the breeze, her twirling color of life slowly subsiding around her. You too have begun to fade. 

Fingers sleepily caress the piano keys as the crowd awaits your answer. The finale! Begin slowly, 

arise, crescendo. Sharp, sharp notes, high and low. A wave of trumpets filling your ears. Pounce on the 

ivory squares. Demand the attention. Push them higher, the twirling flowers dancing across the stage. The coffin closes, worms drawing back into dark holes. Children’s laughter erupts around you. B flat, E minor. Strum, strumming the keys! There will be no earthbound settee for you on this day, no pity. 

The notes linger in the air, rebounding between the seated ruby cushions. A woman holds her 

breath; the note cannot escape. She reaches, her arms open wide, a plumage of hair resting atop her 

powdered forehead. You watch the tension rise beneath her chest as the last upsurge builds beneath your fingertips. Her lips draw a breath, and then a magical bravado. The trill, the flowing F. Three octaves above middle C and your fingers grow persistent. Swaying harmony between pianist and libretto. Joy in this moment! 

Resting corpses be damned, this is not a day of demise. Never a day of failure. Tip of the hat, you 

have mastered the keys. Choral symphony of brilliance, Ode to joyous jealousy. Vienna’s jubilant 

applauding audience wishing you well. Ovation, yield to concentration. Your ended fortissimo, avoidant of musical limbo. Success, the crowd awaits your reception.

By Yours Truly: Michelle Salyga