I Can Still Hear Her Kind Melody Breathing New Life Into These Tortured Notes.

{Photo via Tumblr}

{Photo via Tumblr}

“Do broken pianos play broken songs? Do they have busted melodies for busted hearts? Is there a song living inside it that’s waiting to get out? Her keys are shattered and her notes long since silent but I can still hear her song. Just listen, just listen.” ~ Tyler Knott Gregson

I can still hear her soft, gentle and loving melody. This melody is touched with such fine sensitivity, moving slowly from each note, caressing each tone with infinite wisdom, articulating notes tenderly like coruscating light shining upon the waves of an expansive ocean.

Her melody lingers ever so patiently on each sounded note before being released delicately into the air. I close my eyes and this melody echoes in my ears still.

I can still see her beautiful smile, engaging and dazzling, her warmth radiating brightly and lighting up the world with sunshine. Her laughter, short and sweet staccato notes, which float joyously and flippantly around the room.

Her eyes, pools of understanding, shining brightly, filled with infinite compassion and care.

I can still feel the warmth and softness of her body against mine. I can still remember the smell of her skin. The faint mix of jasmine petals and soap is imprinted on my memory forever. I can still hear her heartbeat, a constant ostinato of comfort, as I rest my head on her chest.

I can still feel her sweet, gentle murmurs being whispered softly in my ear, a beautiful and rich obbligato, drops of compassion from her ocean of love. I can still feel her arms around me, my trembling body wrapped up in a cocoon of love, safely tucked away from the harshness of life.

I can still hear her words of care; they are forever intertwined with my thoughts. They weave an intricate and beautiful pattern, the mosaic of my life.

Sometimes I can still hear her voice, whispers in the dark, her caring tone chasing away the murky and negative thoughts far from the shadowy corners my mind. Her voice is a gentle guide for navigating the map of my heart.

When I feel like I have lost all hope, when my heart feels heavy and I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders, I look up and I can still hear her voice.

I can still feel her concern and her endless compassion. When I’m upset I can still hear her words of reassurance, and feel her fingertips upon my face, lightly catching my hot tears as they rush down my flushed cheeks. I can still hear her advice — it rings clear and true still.

I can still sense her with me, her hand in mine, gently urging me on when I feel I cannot continue.

I can still see her bravery and determination in the face of unbelievable pain and such challenging circumstances. I can still see her courage, her valiant fight and her resistance to giving up. There is so much left unfinished.

I can still hear her anguish, a symphony of sorrowful cries, of tense suspensions and unresolved dissonances. I can still see her face, lines of deep worry and the desperation in her eyes, when she tells me that she is scared she is going to die.

I can still remember her sickness and pain, traumatic and powerful, it was the brutal and cruel nightmare we couldn’t escape. A fierce and unrelenting monster that grew bigger and stronger, devouring everything in its path, a bird of prey, ripping violently at her flesh.

I watched pieces of her disappear.




I can still remember her last breath, aching and traumatic, her face severely contorted in extreme pain, the stiff, white hospital sheets encasing her broken body.

This memory still blazes inside me, an intense fire of agony and regret, the enormous flames lick the inside walls of my fragile and tender heart hungrily, leaving only charred remains. I can still remember my blood-curdling screams and then the deafening silence.

However, out of this blackness, this unbearable pain and this destruction, when I place my hand gently upon my heart and take a deep, slow breath, I can still hear her lone motif from the opening sound once more, tentative and uncertain.

Its mellifluous, haunting tone rises out of this pain and fills the air again. Her lyrical motif of love and compassion emerges battered and beaten but with a new understanding as notes climb higher with an exquisite richness and maturity.

I can still hear her melody as it weaves its kindness around the scattered notes strewn everywhere from before. It breathes new life into these tortured notes, permeating the music with warmth and care.

I can still…

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