Old Soul

A reflection on my illness, the diagnosis and the music that made me face my fate.

It was three bare tom strikes

ringing out an empty room,

with spaces between: 

one-two, empty, four

that brought me to my knees.

Then the chiming of strings,

the beat built itself

into a wall of sound.

Dense, a voice comes crashing against my ears.

Now I tear, my foot is still tapping along:

one-two, space, four.

White knuckles scrapped laminated wood.

The rhythms won't stop building up in my eyes,

the lashes bat back the cracks.

I'd glue them shut,

but I want to see it all.

It builds and builds, the voice breaks with my back.

Where is the crescendo?

I would hold these sticks

and scrape this plectrum,

but these young hands are shaking.

It's too early to be so afraid.

Seven years of hospital beds,

nurses,

appointments,

drugs,

MRI's and canes.

I still limp in the Winter,

I sleep with bed sores in Summer.

This old soul feels the years

in a trembling cup,

a crashing plate,

tearful acceptances.

The last chord came in a circle of fifths.

Resolved at last.

Author's Note

I'd like to know if this struck a cord with anyone at all. Comments are welcome.