Remembering

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There is an enchanting melody playing in my head: a symphony of sounds dancing on my eardrums. A composition: rhythmic, melodic. Wooden sticks knocking. Soft harmony, weaving in and out, tying notes in knots. Wind instruments shouting with squeaks and honks, strangling me with their song, their defiant breaks. Diving saxophone, rich and raspy, plunging towards infinity. Flute trills: twirls of desire, fading only to return vibrant and new. The deep hum of the bass clarinet, the tender strum of guitar strings. Tuba and trombone paired in a staccato chant. This raging rhapsody:  A compilation of memory, dream, wisdom, and want. I hear my mother’s voice, dry, crackling, singing me a lullaby; an unbalanced, off-key serenade. Then the music stops, and I hear her voice climbing a ladder of octaves, louder now, rippling through my blood. And I shiver as I imagine her sitting next to me bodiless, free.

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