"The Day the Music Died"

Betz88

A stormy Sunday, a monthly chore,

After lunch I knocked on Cuddy's door.

"Please, Doctor, come along with me.

There's something you have got to see!"

She looked at me and lightly frowned,

Then followed me without a sound.

I could tell she didn't want to go,

But she had to act the boss, you know.

My hand at her shoulder as a guide,

She walked the hallways by my side.

At the door I winked with a knowing grin.

Her face a question, we went in.

The room, a cavern, the lights down low,

The piano rippled, soft and slow.

Not happy, not bright, a minor key,

A melancholy melody.

We took two seats in the dark last row

And listened to the music flow …

We watched him caress the old keyboard,

His fingers a magic lilt to the chord.

I'd heard him play before … for years,

But to hear it again brought a mist of tears.

As Cuddy stared into my eyes,

My face aglow with her surprise.

Such peace we saw upon his face,

Bereft of pain and blessed with grace.

The lilting strains suffused the air

As highlights danced on his chestnut hair.

I held my breath as my spirit soared

With his artist's hands upon the board.

We watched his face; she smiled to see

Delights transform both her and me.

Some battles won, some battles lost,

We can't spend lifetimes counting cost.

The disabled man had flown away.

There was no crippled leg that day.

We sat delighted, enthralled, beguiled.

His head came up and he finally smiled.

Then, as he smiled, he scanned the room,

And saw us watching from the gloom.

His chin dropped down. Controlled. Iron-willed.

The music died and the magic stilled.

He stood with effort and took his cane,

His movements once more halting, lame.

The delight was temporary, it seems,

Three hearts aglow in fading dreams.

The last thing we heard were his steps on the floor,

The thump of the cane, the slam of the door.

I saw him today in his office, alone,

His chin on his chest, reflections unknown.

His face, pale with pain, stubborn as a mule,

His bad leg propped up on his yellow footstool.

The lights were low, the desk lamp only.

His thoughts a mystery, a study in lonely.

I walked on by myself,

But in my heart I cried

At the look on his face

When the music died …

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