There was a searching look in her eyes, and she paused. "Since when you let them stop you, Lily?"
I hadn't realized until then that her words bore weight. I had stopped, I knew, but I hadn't given the cry, the ridicule, a chance to bind my legs any harder than anything else ever had.
Emily's enthusiasm broke through my piled resistance, and she continued. "Picture it." "The stage. The spotlight. Your song echoing. Not theirs."
The hope shimmered in imagery on the horizon. Grandness was indefinable, an image of distant stars knowing my reality.
I answered, letting her hope seep into my system, just one sip. "One day."
I wrapped my arms around her and smiled knowingly. 'One day' is all you need.
Emily's hopeful tune trailed us back into the lesson, and the phrase wove its way into my thoughts even after the school bell sang afternoon freedom. I walked through the doors into the fresh air, and the voices of Caleb and Alicia were smaller, their chatter in the background, almost forgotten, like a faint echo.
"Maybe the piano room is open," Emily said, as she trailed beside me. "Get a few minutes in before you head home?" It was catching, a remedy.
I thought about it; my guitar was resting lightly against my back. "I guess music might be able to distract me."
The music block was ahead of us and the clatter of chairs being rearranged and the disjointed sounds of instruments tuning filled the space. My limp was nothing compared to my bubbling anticipation, though. I felt the cool self-confidence of the doorknob as Emily swung the door wide, and I heard the click as I registered our makeshift sanctuary.
Emily pulled open the window and let the sun spill onto the cluttered carpet. "Much nicer."
I set my guitar down, running my fingers along its well-worn neck. The chaotic world retreated into a calm hum; it was like taking a deep breath. I found strings with my fingers, and they spoke back.
'Hey, you remember that song you were working on last week?' Setting on the old piano bench, Emily asked.
I chuckled softly, picking a tentative melody with my fingers, shy to be heard, "Still a mess."
She leaned her head back, eyes closed and mused, "It's beautiful." "Like a story unfolding."
I closed my eyes too, the music anchoring my breath, following a path through tangles of thought.
Sunshine dimmed, notes intermingled with shadows, stretching lazily across the room unnoticed by time. This little binding ritual, this healing project, became alone, in defiance of the hallway's earlier spite.
When we were both packing up later, Emily gave me her indomitable cheerfulness, a lucky charm. Remember—there's more good than bad. Like Mr. Thompson says."
I shook my head fondly and followed her out, smiled and slowly began, "You…I know this is weakness, but you and your unbeatable optimism…"
Playful assurance twinkled in her eyes, and she spoke. "Someday, you'll buy it."
I limped homeward mingling her words with the fading light. Ahead of me the road was a patchwork quilt of potential, and for a moment the taunts of the morning became faint whispers behind me. She believed, and maybe, slowly, I would too.
* * * *
Beneath a fading sky stretched Harmony Grove's Park. The setting sun glow while tall oaks and quiet benches were drenched in its rays, shadows on patterned the cobblestone path. The gentle weight of my guitar strapped across my back; I limped toward the gazebo. I could hear each step echoing in my mind, a kind of rhythm, the only strange thing about it being it was so imperfect, but it was never ending.
As I stepped into the wooden structure, I silenced the melody in my head. But I settled into the spot that belonged most to me, where the world shrunk to only the strings and the notes and the release of them. The open-air breeze wove through, rustling the creaky timbers of the gazebo, swirling around me.
A voice from the path was rich and full of history, 'Playing here again, I see.'
Looking up, I saw Mr. Thompson at the entrance to the gazebo. It was the man — he was the man. The man who'd been a fixture at the park, the man whose presence was as familiar as the rustle of leaves and the murmuring of the creek. He was wearing worn clothing and his harmonica poked out of his pocket talked of long roads traveled long ago and long songs.
"That's what I always say before I get myself in trouble," I said, cradling the guitar. "I think that there's something about this place."
A gentle smile formed beneath his whiskered cheeks, and he nodded. Lots of souls have found sanctuary on this spot. "Don't it music got that kind of magic?"
I let out a soft breath as fingers gently brushed the strings unconsciously. 'You could say that.'
"Are you playing something for me today?"
I looked down, the weight of the afternoon, of the people that didn't get it. Alicia, Caleb, their sharp words, I shrugged, 'Just trying to forget.'
The planks creaked under his weight as Mr. Thompson took a seat opposite me. Music's for remembering too but forgetting is one thing. It sometimes reminds us of who we really are."
"Who am I then?" There was stillness to the evening and the bitterness in my voice was unhidden.
"A girl with a limp? Someone different?" "Someone unique." His eyes were full of intense, warm, and very wise compassion. "Why don't you play, show me Lily through those strings?"
Lowering my gaze, I lowered the guitar I knew the guitar so well I let a simple tune unfurl, each note deliberates. His fingers tapped gently along with the rhythm, as if to feel each chord like some kind of a stamping, so that his own spirit would remember it.
His whisper when the last note died was beautiful. "You've got such heart, Lily. Not everyone does that so early," he said.
'So, it's just a song,' I protested, but my voice captured with desire that it would be something more.
"A song's where it starts. He reminded me of the words that had so often rekindled the dimming light, even within the best symphonies you start with a single note. "One time I fumbled onstage in front of thousands. Have I ever told you that story?"
My head shook, despite my unease, I was intrigued.
He began, eyes distant with the memory. "Paris." That was supposed to be the first piece I played, something I practiced for months but blanks happen. I'd forget where to go next and start. I stood there, a deer in headlights, and there was an entire crowd.
I admitted that sounded... terrifying.
"It was. Then I started playing what I felt. No more, no less. Just heart. That's when I found the music everyone came to hear."
"Okay, so you just... went with it?" My voice inched with disbelief.
"More like I followed it. Music, just like life, it's the matter of finding your beat and regardless of everything the world enhances to increase the volume on everything. He leaned back and watched me carefully. "The rhythm, what's telling you?"
I hugged the guitar closer and thought about his words. "I'm not ready for the 'Harmony Showdown'." It feels like too much."
It was etched across his face. It is a moment, Lily, the competition. What leads up to that moment though, is yours. You get to decide what story your song tells."
I clung to this idea, moving closer to the revelation. "But maybe people won't understand my song." What if nobody listens?"
He nodded as if bound in agreement, "Oh, there'll be those who don't." Nothing is more honest than singing for you first. It's for the right people and they will hear it."
The park came alive during the lull of the evening, silence bridged between us. His harmonica came out; its pad was as worn as his trusty cap. He brought it to his lips; a soulful melody filling the air, complimenting the small echo of birds settling down to the night. The gazebos indulged each note he played, melding it softly with the park; weaving tapestries around itself like a comforting embrace.
He paused for a breath, and then said, "See." "Music is like this park: It never lets the stories go. "We leave a little of ourselves each time we play," he said.
"And what stories have you told of these walls?" I looked at him, captivated by the raw expression coming from his harmonica.
He winked, a small laugh escaping him. I wish it were those early days, when I had returned home from a long tour and found this very spot. I lost myself here alone until I let my music find me again."
"And did it?" I questioned, because even for a seasoned musician, how could they ever feel aimless.
"Yes, eventually. Took some time, though. Lily, life never really stops challenging you. Coming home," every note is a steppingstone back to us. "This is home to you, he means."
He ran a hand through his silver hair and mused 'in a way'. "We choose our homes, Lily. We decide who gets to hear our music. These moments? —your steppingstones … Consider Harmony Grove."