literature

His Hands

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Literature Text

Oh, he could melt your heart just saying, "Hello". His hands were continents and you could tell he played the piano if you let him rest his hand on your closed eyes. They were restless, trembling things, but there was a hum of energy and compassion always present that coursed from his fingertips.

I was there at his performance for his father's memorial service. The song he played was from a video game, a song of departure that even had a moment reflecting the exact point at which a soul passed from this world to the next. And here those who attended sat weeping in the sudden break in music after such a tremendous crescendo.

Years after the performance, he often and fondly told me that his father would always provide suggestions on how to improve the song, and the performance at the memorial was the best he had ever played.

I was there when the doctors told him the exact moment he'd die. Funny how far along technology has come, isn't it? All he did was breathe in slowly, and out, and in again to speak. Then he looked at me and said, "You're going to learn a song with me." I immediately knew which one, and after weeping the future loss, he told me he knew i was strong enough to carry on where he stopped playing. There would be two pianos. His deathbed would be especially set to accommodate.

We played together in front of everyone who came to say goodbye. And that moment, at the great crescendo and sudden break, he sighed and closed his eyes, his continental hands had lost their hum, and he leaned back as I, in shuddering tears, played the rest of the song till the end.

I'll remember that day for as long as I'm able to remember anything. I wish I could tell you more but I'm lost in memories now. Perhaps another time.

I love you. Get some rest. Good night.
narrative, story telling
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