Melody of The Dead

I sit in the room of my childhood

The light brown walls, 15 inch T.V, air conditioner, 

and gray furniture untouched by time

Picture frames multiply, as years pass 

consuming the walls and tables acting as

the hall of fame for past memories 

that earned the right to be preserved  

 

The songs of my childhood radiate throughout the room

Beethoven and Chop Sticks harmonizing with Happy Birthday and Jingle Bells,

making a remix all of it’s own

As if my Grandmother was in the music room playing the piano herself

The love for her family, 

overwhelming happiness when seeing her Grandchildren,

and the sadness of time passing by projected into her playing

 

My Grandfather sitting in the same spot on the couch, 

as he watches Cowboy flicks,

but slowly closing his eyes taking in the beauty of her playing

As a smile slowly forms he turns to me,

“Your Grandmother is the most beautiful woman in the world 

and after all these years, that hasn’t changed.”

 

But he's not in that spot anymore

and all that’s left is his impression

The songs of my past fading away 

and replaced by a flatlining ring the day he got sick

Trying to return, but unable to 

because it’s pointless without a muse

 

And the music dies as my Grandmother begins to follow

struggling to keep playing as a tube is shoved down her throat to help her breath 

Her skin becomes as pale and yellow as the walls in her music room

 

The woman who even at 86 made people think she was 60

The woman who woke up at the break of dawn 

looking as radiant and alive as the sunrise itself

The woman who would go to church, sing in choirs, and play piano at all hours

appearing as though nothing could hurt her 

 

And I never realized once, how small and fragile she truly was