Symphony of Life

People often say that the sound of music is a way of relaxing. They say it can be an escape from everyday life, but at the same time, life is all music is about. Music is life, for some. But for me… my life IS music. And not in the way that you might think. My name is Matthew Borough, a young adult male that you just might have seen before. I’m the type of guy who would take out your trash, take your order at a drive through, fix your cable box. You’ve had interactions with me before, but you can’t say that you know me. We exchange names, but it’s just a word for an object, as is the word box to.. a box. I can’t really object to this, I lived with my older sister and mother in a ranch house in middle New Jersey for all of my life. To any other person, you might die of boredom living there. But it’s the only life I know, and it’s an interesting one. There were always so many questions that I had, but never bothered asking because they weren’t ever a problem for me. For instance, there was only one bathroom in our house, and whenever you went to pee, a window was there, right above the toilet. Nobody could see what you were doing, the vine covered fences and thick pine trees made sure of that, but there was a small concrete building with iron bars blocking off the four perpendicular entranceways. Nobody ever went near it, and neither did I. My grandmothers ranch isn’t that welcoming either. The rotting wood exterior, combined with the unkempt rock-lawn that was always covered in weeds and other plants made the house look like it was abandoned. And I couldn’t argue with that.

The day that my life changed was December 5th, 2011. I was 14 years old at the time, and it was what I call the fifth season. Many people consider Winter to be the season of death, but they are so very mistaken. Early December and late November brings a whole new meaning to the word dead. Everything was barren, the once beautiful array of Autumn leaves had rotted away into a gray and dull red mess upon the rock-lawn. The unforgiving cold of the Winter season was starting to kick in, and the near constant veil of clouds above made it even worse. it was depressing. One way I entertained myself on the boring ranch was exploring. But the dead season had taken away the thrills of exploring the lush world outside of our crack house. That day, however, was different. Instead of taking a walk down the endless river shoreline to see if I could ever reach the end, or taking a hike through the woods, I went over to an area I passed about a million times but never had the drive to explore. That is, until that day. Like the concrete gazebo, the old church in the field of uncut grass always eluded me. But whether the ominous nature of the church kept me away, or some other reason, I wanted to satiate my curiosity once and for all.

The grass was tall, thick, and hard to get through. There was no walkways to the church, and the building itself was rather small. The archaic stone brick architecture, as well as the green-rusted copper steeple informed me of the building’s age. I opened the wooden doors and saw that it was a Presbyterian church. But alas, what should have been a beautiful, snow white place of worship had degraded into a dusty, broken inside, the walls a decayed yellowish brown. The church itself wasn’t anything impressive. Some of the pews were broken, and the Bible up at the minister’s desk looked ancient, although that could’ve just been standard (I was raised as a Catholic). Either way, the building offered nothing of substance, and I was about to leave when I noticed a small door near the back corner of the church. I approached it, and tried opening the door. Expecting to find it locked, my heart skipped a beat when I pulled the door clean off the hinges. The following sound of the door slamming against the ground resonated throughout the acoustics of the church like a cannon blast. Nevertheless, I entered.

Inside were 3 stained glass windows, covered with dust making it nearly impossible to see the room clearly. I would have cleaned them, but they were too high up for me to reach. But the faint light the windows provided shone a piano. Covered with dust, but not looking damaged or even withered. I didn’t have anything else to do, so I looked outside to confirm that nobody was there, and I sat down to inspect it. Before I knew it, I was playing. Although it was somewhat unprecedented. I intended to see if the piano still worked, but I wasn’t entirely skilled with a piano, so I was completely taken off guard at how good I was. It seemed second nature to me, though the only instrument I ever played was the triangle. I barely had to think about what note I would play next. It was like playing a video game, but not focusing on the game at all. You did it subconsciously. And the tune I played was a nice one. It wasn’t dark like the rest of my day, and to be honest, it cheered me up a bit. My fingers glided across the keys like they were oiled, and I didn’t miss a single note in my own composition. That is to say, everything sounded right. Like something a professional would have done. And at the end of the composition, a smile had curled on my lips. I decided to keep this a secret, as I didn’t know if I was trespassing or not. I left the church, but not before looking back at the piano. The rest of my day continued on a higher note than before. Grandma cooked a ham, and we had hot chocolate and cookies for dessert.

The next day, I had to go to school. It was relatively close, so I walked to school every day. The church was on the way to school, and because of this, I was always curious of it. My grandmother was never awake when I went to school, so my mother insisted on making breakfast. My mother is the one who works to put food on the table, and she is always in a rush to get me to school. Because of this, I had a little bit more time before I would be late to first period. I decided to go to the church to play a bit more before my day. And this time, my fingers and the piano produced a symphony that was as drab as the fifth season itself. The day that followed was alright. Nothing much happened. It was a normal day, just as it was, and I continued on with my life until I woke up the next morning. This continued for a few days, I went to the church, played a melody that had different notes, but the theme was always more or less the same until the end of that week. That morning, the notes that played were a rather bold and dark. I liked the change. I went in to first period empty handed. No homework. I failed the assignment, although the teacher said if I did it over the weekend I would still get credit. Whoop dee do. In gym class, I was caught staring at one of the cheerleaders, and spent the rest of the day trying to avoid social interactions. I went to sleep that night without any dinner. I didn’t feel like eating.

After an uneventful weekend, I was surprised to find that I was playing a rather joyful tune when I went to the church. It was beautiful, and a pleasure to hear myself play. The symphony was elegant, and it seemed as if that day, everything went right. I pulled through with the homework, and the teacher accidentally put in full credit instead of half. I wasn’t about to tell him that he made a mistake. And the cheerleader that I was looking at on Friday walked up to me. I thought that my luck had run out, but instead of lashing out at me, she seemed interested in me. We hung out after school, and let's just say that I didn't sleep in my bed that night.

I was too far from school to walk, so I rode her bus to school the following morning, a bit disappointed that I didn’t get to play the piano on my way to school as usual. Lisa (The name of the cheerleader, by the way), had to leave for a doctor’s appointment at noon, so I didn’t get to spend lunch with her, and I didn’t see her in gym. The day itself was bleak, boring, and lifeless. Almost nothing of substance happened. Everything was perfectly normal, and that wasn’t exactly the most invigorating thing to experience after one of the best days of your life. Everything was drab, even the roast beef we ate for dinner seemed tasteless. But the next morning was quite the opposite.

I played the piano again on the way to school. But the tune was unlike anything I had heard before. I wanted to continue playing something grand, elegant and beautiful as I had before to get my mood going, but instead what my fingers insisted on playing was the polar opposite of that. All I heard was low, drawn out notes, with harsh and abrupt chords in between.

I got a call in fifth period. Everything was in a daze as I was escorted in a car to a building I hadn’t seen in an awful long time. My mother was crying, and as soon as I saw the hospital, I knew why we were there. We were rushed to the ER, and my grandmother was there. But by the time we were there, it was too late. The rest of the day went by faster than I could blink. But in the brief 10 hours spent between being in the emergency room and laying down on my bed I realized something. Something that became so obvious I hated myself for not realizing it before. My life was corresponding to the music I played. I then vowed never to go to that church again, and to never play another piano as long as I lived.

And I did just that. But the solution wasn't even worthy of being called short-term. For the rest of the week, I walked past the church and kept on walking, never averting my eyes to the stone brick building. But each and every day was more lifeless than the last. No social interaction, nothing of substance. Absolutely nothing. It was depressing, and by the end of the week I was contemplating suicide. As much as I didn’t want to, I had to play the piano again. The last day of the schoolweek. I had to try to make a change this time. I went to the church that morning and tried in vain to play something upbeat. What followed was a somewhat upbeat melody, akin to the time I first played the piano. The day that ensued was a good one. All my assignments were turned in, a teacher got beaned in the head with an apple, and we couldn’t stop laughing. The day ended with a date with my girlfriend, and I had a cookie before I went to sleep.

Two days pass, and I feel like a slave. I’m forced to know what my life will entail before it happens. What used to be fun and surprising was now something I was just anxious for, as I had no other choice but to regard whatever the piano played as accurate. As a result, everything just became waiting. Waiting for a boring day to be over, waiting for something bad, waiting for something good. Once again, I was contemplating suicide.

But one day, something different happened. I went to the church and tried to play the piano, but I couldn’t. There wasn’t any magical force preventing me from doing so, but when I willed my fingers to play, all that came out was what keys I hit, but no song ensued. I no longer had the fluency or even knowledge to play the piano as I did before. All that I heard was the rain beating down on the roof of the building. I left without playing a song. The day went by without any sort of bad occurrence, but nothing bad either. It wasn’t mind-numbingly boring like the days I resisted playing the piano. It was normal, but not boring. I even spent lunch with my girlfriend, and we told each other stories while the storm raged outside of our school.

When I went home, I was stopped by 3 firetrucks in the middle of the road. I looked over, and saw what was going on. It was the church. Lightning struck the tall grass, and it was spreading to the inside of the building. I stayed there until it was under control. The building had collapsed. But I didn’t mourn a single bit. The next day, things were normal. And they continued to be that way. For 3 weeks I lived as a slave to a force I couldn’t understand. And now, I felt so glad to be free.

My grandmothers funeral was a few weeks later. I had been to many funerals, as most of my older relatives had died by now. I knew how the proceedings went. But I couldn’t stop thinking of the piano. The doctor said it was a heart attack. But I knew it had to be something else. Whatever it was, it was gone. But it didn’t really leave entirely. All music on the radio sounds the same now. And even if I wanted to listen to it, I was always reminded of that damn piano. The funeral went on as it should have. Nothing bad or out of the ordinary. It was closed casket. And even though there was a pianist playing a grand piano at the funeral, the music he played was normal. It was a song of remembrance, something to lift the spirits and remember all the good that the person who passed had brought into this world. A good, happy song that would lighten anyones spirits. But all I heard was low, drawn out notes, with harsh and abrupt chords in between.