Sonia’s fingers skim the surface of the keys. Hover really. She disremembers so many thingamajigs. Compilations, occupations, collaborations, ornamental and supplemental. The infarct cycloned through her temple one ordinary afternoon wiping the slate clean. Irreversible, they say. But inside is music. And the orchestra is playing. And Sonia is dancing up a storm — THREE one TWO, THREE one TWO. Her brain still imagines the mazurkas and polonaises. Fingers tap-tap searching for sharps and flats. Sonia’s daughter does not notice the tempo rubato dancing in her eyes. Disregards the pitter patter of her toes, the swish of her slipper, kick of her heel, that clearly mark the syncopation on the parquet floor. Sonia’s daughter does not feel the sis boom bah, the boom chicka boom. For her the music has stopped. In the mornings, when Sonia hums, chirps, warbles, and purrs, her daughter shuts the door, misreading her noises as gibberish. She believes Sonia’s innards merely gummy and in-decay, especially when she gimbals and is prone to sway. No memory to consider, nothing to feel. But inside is music. And the orchestra is playing. one TWO THREE, one TWO THREE. In the evenings, Sonia’s daughter doesn’t see her fingers trailing along the graceful lines of the century old Bösendorfer baby grand. The Bavarian spruce tonewood frame unblemished after all this time. But there is memory in her touch. And joy. Instead, her daughter thinks Sonia is leaning in for purchase, to offset a fall. She rushes in to shuttle her to safety plunking her down in the paisley wingback chair. Leaving her catatonic by the bay window to watch the shuffle of traffic on the street below. But inside is music, and the orchestra is playing. Zoom, whizz, zip, the vehicles whoosh east then west. Sonia’s foot flicks counter then clockwise, tapping out the beat like a metronome. A waltz glides, a minuet walks, a mazurka stomps. Inside is music. "Inside Is Music" was published in Potato Soup Journal, September, 2022
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