#cottagecommunity

The sun has only begun to set,

and creates a sea of orange and yellow across the sky- 

glowing against the sharp silhouette of 

a far off mountain range. 

A gentle wind rustles through the tall grass

the final

dying breath of Summer

You stop 

waiting at the edge of the meadow

the hot August air hangs heavy around you,

laden with the suffocating scent of grass and wildflowers. 

A choir of crickets have begun to chirp, 

as if replying to the harsh calls of the cicadas. 

Approaching the edge of the field, the grass seems to part for you 

maybe your imagination, but maybe the Earth is 

responding to you.

She knows who you are

and she is waiting for you, 

somewhere.

Here, 

It’s a beautiful sound, he thinks. And though he doesn’t know the tune it feels familiar- like a memory clawing at the edge of recollection as it slips further into obscurity. The melody is ice skates on a frozen lake, and the crisp crunch of dew under snow boots. It leaves him shivering where he stands.

The haunting allure of the melody draws him as he advances towards the source of the sound. His steps are careful, measured- as he stalks towards the end of the hallway. A slightly ajar door beckons him closer- its warm light spilling out into the darkened corridor, the scent of cinnamon and cognac wafting through the air. Afraid that this fragile dream-like state will shatter at any sudden movement, he reaches out tentatively to push into the room. 

With a quiet groan of the hinges, the door swings open. 

A woman dressed in plaid pajamas is seated at a bench, leaning over the loud, echoey monstrosity from which the music comes. The music rages like a wildfire, raised to life by her own hands as she ignites the keys with her fingertips. Shards of yellowed-ivory, stained by the hand of time, and dark charcoal decorate the ancient monstrosity. The battered and worn edges of the sun-bleached maple wood tells not a story of reckless neglect or carelessness, but one of a well used, and well-loved, instrument. 

The familiar sound of winding melodies was like a choir of distinct voices- mezzo soprano clashing against tenor- they all hit him at once like a ton of bricks. A child with tousled, black curls is seated next to her, leaning up against and under her arm. 

He faintly remembers this morning, it was early winter. The fallen leaves that painted the ground in vibrant reds and vivacious yellows had been blanketed by a veil of freshly fallen snow, and his mother had just made him hot chocolate adorned with tiny marshmallows. It was times like these when he could remember his mother fondly- when her body was unencumbered by IVs or the drowsiness of anesthetic, or when it was her laugh that reverberated deep within you, and not the rasping sound of her coughing fits. 

He doesn’t recall her playing the piano, but her hands seem to move with the measured practice of a composer. She uses the instrument like an extension of herself as she effortlessly plays the enchanting tune. Her long, black braids dance to the movement of her body, swaying from side to side as her arms move about frantically. 

He’s not afraid to approach her, all previous apprehension washing away.