How did it feel to wake up?
It’s quiet.
My days used to be filled with music. I would rise with a gentle, wordless melody and patiently wait for you to wake so our duet may begin. I’ve never been a loud person but you made me musical. Together, we could sing an imperfect chorus every time. Like jazz, it was ruckus, it was noise, it was good and it was fun.
Today, I wake up in the dawn and it is so quiet.
The memory is still fresh, we’d rehearsed our final verse as last night melted into morning. We’d looked at each other, singing harmony but my lines echoed just a beat behind yours. And afterwards, I didn’t sleep – how could I?
How could I sleep when – in that moment, we were Stevie looking at Lindsay in 1982: unable to look away, chained together by this angry, anguished dissonance. A furious rage possessed every note that brought our song closer to its end, but we didn’t stop until it was over.
And now, the sun is rising and the rage is gone. It is quiet and I miss you.
But like everybody else who has ever loved and lived, I must face the dawn.
I think of a song we never sang together, one with no anger in the words, only a grieving acceptance. My favourite part goes:
the war is over and we are beginning,
here it comes, here comes the first day,
it starts up in our bedroom after the war.
I sing it to myself, not quite giving voice to the notes. My whisper fades to silence and I take a shaky breath, my cheeks wet and my chest heaving.
It will take time – more dawns and midnights than I can count – but I will remember how to sing a solo again.
prompt as question and response