by Mason
I only have one memory of my brother, and that was what he looked like when he lay in his coffin. I was about 10 at the time, and my brother peaked at 20. He was some sort of musician, or whatever, and all I can remember about him was that he was sleeping in a box with people looking at him. Our parents were crying, and some music – I think it may have been his – played as we filed past.
From then on there was no music in our house. No one listened, no one played, and if I started humming I was glared – or whacked – into silence. So on it went. Life passed by without color or sound, just a black and white world that I had to endure.
Eventually when I got into high school, I grew to dislike music. My mind blocking out all the noise as someone opened their mouths to sing or picked up an instrument. I was content, kept to myself and participated in life.
Then one day after school, while I stayed back to work on something I saw her. She seemed nice enough. I had seen her only once before, something had changed her. Such a beautiful person roaming the halls, it was like she came out of a fairy tale.
Then I heard it, softly at first, growing louder until it was a cascade of pitches and melodies: this was music. Like the appearance of lightning, my world was changed; immediately colors filled my view with such vibrancy it was almost unbelievable. This torrent of life sprang from music and from one person. I then knew what I had been missing for so long, not only music, but love and other emotions that were closed off when my brother died, such emotions that I was refused so that I would not have to undergo such pain again. Music and love.
