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Brown eyes clear as mud, gaze across an ebony reflection of cracked ashtrays and dreams of fame yet to be realised. Her slender fingers tipped in green enamel meet with music's ivory keys and to an unfocused witness they become one with the notes of a baby grand. An innocence beneath masks of music maker and entertainer still remains, sealed away behind the curtains. Only the lull of a bass resuscitates the heart beat of her forgotten child; the one who used to soar upon others melodies and grew to breathe her own. An audience applaudes her soul's secrets, plucked out on a guitar's crimson strings to the charge of an eight beat. Wooden sticks strike metal and air while a Nike shoe creates homeless echos with each pedal kick. The music of her life spills off the stage in a subtle lullaby, seduced from instruments by her melody infused fingers.
My Sister the Music Maker
Today I looked into the past, it all began when that picture fell to my lap. Two girls in their sunday best shyly smile back at me. It was another time, another place. Broken promises are remembered, they flood in with every glance at the yellowed photograph. Your laugh still fresh in my memory leads my feet down an overgrown path to the old house in the valley. Inside, the wallpaper whispers our long ago told secrets, they call to me from your bedroom. Sitting on the floor, I weep with the abandoned walls. And mourn for a sisters love, one flown away on angels wings, never to be found again.
Sister in a Photograph
