And the trip they give
Sunday mornings are a source of tremendous joy – at least for the rare gentle souls of this world that only dare to crawl out of their quiet abodes while the rest peacefully slumber away. And thus, as the autumn sun creeps its way up the blushing sky – washing the few stray clouds pink and gold – I trudge out of my home and into the cool fiery glow of the season.
My feet merrily crunch along a path nestled in the woods, my mind wandering somewhere amongst the coral and rouge flurry of autumn leaves and hushed bird song in the air, when, before I know it, a solitary building looms in the distance.
It’s almost a castle – with its rust brown brick towers and antique window panes. The property is surrounded by unkempt fields on all sides, and a quaint cobblestone path leading up to the ancient door. It seems straight out of a fairy tale, but, as you come closer, you realize that the ivy coiling around the building is depressingly rotten, the grass all around fading into a sickening yellow, the trees bare and forlorn, the air reeking of loneliness. All of it – encased by cold, towering fences, locked behind a relentless iron gate. It’s almost as if winter reached here before it did the rest of us – morphing the place into tragedy, except – except – this is what it looks like all year round.
I should know, I’ve been trying (and failing) to sneak in for months now. There are no cracks in the walls around the castle, and the gate was promptly declared un-climbable after a particularly harrowing fall.
As I near the building, mentally preparing myself to try and pick the wretched lock (for the thousandth time, for God’s sake), I realize it’s not there. The lock – the stubborn, wicked lock – that I’d spent months trying to get rid of – is nowhere to be seen. Excitement spikes up in my chest, impatient and all-consuming, the frail tendrils of hesitation (along with all my morals, apparently) getting squashed under the chaos of electricity coursing through me. I hurriedly creak the gate open and rush across the expanse to peek in through one of the back windows.
The sight before me is painstakingly beautiful. It’s a mostly empty room – with a ruby velvet carpet running along the floor. The ceiling is invitingly tall, and dangling down from it is a dazzling chandelier, its crystal pieces glinting and giggling in the sunlight, cutting gleaming shapes across the cream walls of the room. And smack in the middle of the room, ancient and quiet, is a grand piano.
It’s the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen. The sunlight dances upon its sleek chocolate exterior, which, strangely enough, is dust free. A stool sits patiently in front of it – its cushion looking well-worn with use. My fingers twitch with longing by my side when I spot the pearl and ink keys – a sudden urge to play the instrument swelling deep inside my chest and snaking to the tips of my toes.
I’m about to climb into the room and satisfy my dear heart’s wish when I see a catwalk in – seemingly out of nowhere – paws soft and nimble. My body stills of its own accord, transfixed by its fluid movement. Its wispy fur is completely grey – as if made of smoke. I think about it melting into the air – swirling and rising and breezing away to nowhere and everywhere. It jumps up onto the piano with practised ease and turns its head towards me, and my breath catches in my throat. Its eyes are stark green – and mine get involuntarily sucked into them, drawn by an invisible pull. I feel time slip away, peeling itself from the world in layers, crushed under the impalpable magic of the room, or perhaps the scrutinizing gaze of the cat.
I don’t know how much of it passes, but when the cat looks away, and I look back up – something unfamiliar and simultaneously homely taking birth in my belly – there’s the unmistakable figure of a man sitting on the piano stool. I never heard him walk in – no mellow pad of feet on the carpet, no whoosh of a quiet breath. One moment there’s no one, and the next there he is – drenched in sunlight, his shoulders slumped and fingers ghosting over the piano keys, trembling hesitantly.
Unlike his pet – who has now stalked away and made its home in the crook of its owner’s ankles – he doesn’t seem to notice me. I watch him watch his wavering hands. I watch the ethereal sun rays twist and fold around him, watch them defy the laws of physics to touch all of him at once – to graze his cocoa hair, his fluttering eyelashes, his aureate skin. He takes a deep, rooting breath, and suddenly, music takes over the room, swallowing all the air like it’s an ocean wave.
I call it music, but, oh, it’s so much more. It's melancholy woven with melody, spilling from the man’s deft fingers onto the piano and from the air into my lungs. I feel it intertwine with my hair, slink into my veins, and wrap around me like a blanket that shouldn’t feel so comfortable.
I wonder if I’m growing wings.
I wonder if this man is an angel, and his cat is smoke, and his piano is alive and breathing.
I wonder if this place tore a gash in the fabric of the universe.
The song swells and swells, reaching a crescendo, filling me up with emotion that feels almost tangible – like if I reach my hand out, it will brush against the syrupy sadness in the room.
And just as soon as it came, the music is gone. My body suddenly feels empty, devoid of life, and my soul feels as if it’s been grounded after a soaring flight.
I can’t tell if it’s agonizing or relieving.
When I open my quivering eyes (when did I shut them?), I see, through their newborn blurry haze, that the man is gone, and so is his cat. The piano sits silently again, the magic sucked from the walls of the room, the light back to scientific normal.
I wonder if I’ll ever see them again. But I guess that is what Sunday mornings are all about.