His Hands
He lets his hands fly across the keys. Hunched over, becoming one with the object. His rough good looks contorted into concentration, lost in his own world. In a complete rage and yet he is so controlled. And just as forceful as the masterpiece had begun, it is over abruptly.
****
They moved across the keys, his hands a painter’s brush, the canvas of black and white, an artist none the less. The notes produced lingered in the air almost the way his presence always shadows near. His hands wrote a story, each note another word, a brush stroke of beauty that always can be heard. He envisioned in his mind, the picture was so clear, he managed to tell his fingers which played music sweet and near. It is amazing the power in his hands; they held the keys with such light touch, the notes bowed and parted, his hands possessed so much. The hands of a genius, the hands of a poet, he wrote his own story, his life as we know it. The music is never ending, his hands never shall grow old, yet one story unfinished, his hands for a moment slowed. Kept us always guessing, his hands always know, but the soul of the person inside the hands shall always show. The keys of black and white when played upon by hands, colored the sky, our own world a brighter place because he and his hands can never be replaced.

****
He stretches his back, his hands rub his tense neck. He picks up his pen and scribbles notes on a piece of paper that constitutes his thoughts. His hands do not move with nearly the grace they had exhibited when they had embraced the keys. The sounds he produced continues to lingering in the air. The music that he created is his claim to fame.

He runs his fingers through that dark Italian hair. He never seems at a loss for words but at this moment, lost in his own thoughts, small compared to the black looming object that he sits before, he is silent. He stands up, his larger than life presence is suddenly engulfed by the room and the pieces that surround him.
****

Everything that she had just seen so clearly becomes blurred into the picture that had been etched on her mind. The picture of reality sets in and she no longer sees him. Just the room remains with its muted tones and picture frames of the faces that used to be. And then just a wall. A wall that greatness once stood before with strong hands and a light smile.
The room spins and comes what she knows it to be, a poor attempt to hide the sadness. She thought a coat of paint and new picture frames would erase the bad memories that she had, but they only seemed to disguise them. And now the room wore a mask just like she did. She kept that big black piano, its value more sentimental that anything else. Somewhere in the distance she hears his music, the way he could take any song and make it better, and how he could play any instrument.

The blowing wind outside catches her attention. She looks through the window that once held so many opportunities. The blue sky gives the impression that it is warm outside, but like her sunny exterior, it just a façade.

The wind picks up again disturbing her thoughts. She looks at the piano and sees his shadow on the keys, closes her eyes shakes the thought from her mind and walks out of the cold room. She walks to the kitchen and glances at the clock. She is not sure how an hour had passed. She waters the plant in the window and then closes it as a cold chill runs through her body. She turns on the tea kettle and the television hoping to get her mind off of him.

She looks at his picture; his sharp green eyes and loving smile, set in that handsome face. It is the picture she see every time she closes her eyes. Here and now seeing his face, she suddenly she feels better. How and why she doesn’t know. The wind blows outside making the wind chimes dance with a sweet melody. They sing a familiar song. She is not sure how, but it seems to be playing one of his songs. The last one he wrote. The tea kettle starts to scream, she quickly turns it and the TV off so she can listen to the song. She is afraid to look. Slowly she peeks her head around the corner to look out the big picture window. It provides a clear view into the back yard where the wind chimes are hanging. She swears it is his song.

And there, swinging in the wind, are the chimes, playing his notes. She feels warm despite the cold tile floor beneath her bare feet. She stands there just listening to the melody, praying it won’t stop, hoping the wind will continue to blow. She watches as the chimes sway, dancing to the song they play. And as the last note chimed, the wind stopped suddenly and the only noise was her heart beat. She realized she was holding her breath and exhales, unconsciously wipes the tears from her eyes and looks at his picture. He seems to smile brighter, a silly grin as if to say, don’t worry. She doesn’t dare move from the window in case it starts again. Amazed, she wonders if she is awake.

Silently she moves away and back into the kitchen. She takes a cup from the shelf above the stove. She smiles, thankful to be alive, thankful to have his memory, thankful to be able to see his face so clearly. She pours a cup of tea, warms her hands on the steaming mug and walks back to that room. The piano looms before her but it seems not quite so big. She sets down the cup of hot tea, and sits on the bench. She smiles at the worn keys, cold to touch as she runs her fingers over them as he had done so many times. She can feel him smiling down on her, watching from above, happy to see her genuinely smile for the first time in what seems like forever. Once again tears fall from her eyes. But this time as they fall, they trickle down her cheeks and on to her hands which embrace the keys. She sighs with relief and the satisfaction of knowing that he is forever safe and that he watches over her. She closes the lid to the piano and stands up. Picking up her cup she walks from the room, briefly pausing at the door. For the last time that day she lets her mind wonder and she hears him…
****

Close your eyes and see me, touch me, remember me. I am always with you, yet you can only see me in your dreams. I watch over you forever. I am in your mind and in your heart. I play for you to comfort and calm you, the notes that you know by heart and play in your head. Feel me, hear me, for I miss you as much as you miss me. But through your eyes I see, your hands I touch, your tears I shed, and your pain I feel. I laugh with you and remember like you. I know you know I am here beside you, walking, breathing, living. Listen for me, remember me and feel me, but most of all love me. Until your dreams…
****

“He lets his hands fly across the keys, hunched over, becoming one with the object.”

She opens her eyes and smiles, she had better let him work, he has masterpieces to create.