The Maestro
With thin body, frail bones,
She cracks with every move she makes
Like a drum counting off the beat.
She composes requiems of silence
And hidden tears, and she plays them
Over and over again
The way she used to play the piano,
Fingers scuttling along the keys
Before they failed to perform.
She writes scores of whispers and averted eyes,
A bridge connecting to the
Chorus of how-are-yous that
Provide a rhythmic beat to her daily life.
Vague explanations of how her body is killing itself
Are misplaced notes that
Throw the whole thing off,
An unplanned dissonance.
Her smile seems strained,
Like the strings on a guitar
That had been pulled too tight.
Her laugh echoes like an accidental
Note played half a pitch
Above what it should be.
Her eyes are muted
Trumpets, banned from playing
To their fullest potential.
Her voice is dry, coming out in rasps
Like a snare drum hit
At absolute random.
Her mother’s worried eyes are the
Clarinets warming up for their
Eventual funeral march.
Her father’s encouraging smile
Is the background piccolo
That is barely heard but
Always there.
At night, when she is alone
With the music of the life that
Is fading away from her,
A slow but noticeable decrescendo,
She revels in the sounds she knows
By heart, and even though it hurts,
She always wanted to write
A symphony.
