Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
“And here it is” he says to himself, shuffling the piano stool closer to the keys, knees almost touching the shiny black wood. Hands outstretched, two quick right left stretches of the neck and a long breath in.
Left hand octaves. Little finger and thumb holding down for four beats before changing. Laying a picnic rug of sound for the treats of the right hand to be arranged on.
“Here it is” a simple tumbling tune that holds no meaning bar that which the listener attaches to it. A ball falling down a flight of stairs.
And he’s crying now because it’s the best thing he’s ever done and it’s still an ants’ description of a sky scraper.
The right and left hand and the tumbling melody are like everything he’s ever attempted. Good but not… Brilliant.
He’s crying because he’s scared of this ordinary beauty. Scared of being satisfied with its round edges and pleasantness.
The tune revolves, coming back to the beginning which is really the middle which becomes the end.
It revolves like the hands of a child’s watch or… The moon.
He’s pretty messy now. Face covered with salt and snot and the sobs become giggles because who does he think he is? Who the hell is he to decide how good it is? How worthy? How meaningful?
The left hand makes its stately way through the pattern and the right hand runs about its legs like a puppy.
And that’s it.
That’s enough.
He wipes his eyes with the back of his hands and digs a tissue from his pocket.
“There it is” he says out loud to no one.