the
time. What did she have to get up for? Where did she have to go?
Whom did she get to look forward to meeting? These questions and
others plagued her throughout the small remainder of the morning.
She didn't bother to get dressed; she wasn't going to get out of the
house, and no one would be seeing her.
After feeling so good about herself for a long stretch of time, this
depression hit her hard. She listlessly made herself a cup of tea and
took it into the living room. Setting the cup down on the coffee table,
she took the time to belt her dressing gown more firmly around her
small waist before sitting down. Just as she was sinking into a curled-
up position on the couch, a firm knock sounded at the front door,
making her nearly jump out of her skin. She stared at the rectangular
frame of wood, as if expecting someone to bash down the door and
force an entry into the house. Who in the world could be wanting to
see her? Perhaps it was someone who had taken a wrong turn off the
nearby highway, and wanted to know directions. Sara considered this
possibility for a moment with her head cocked to one side, as the
knocking turned to imperative pounding, and she decided that it
couldn't be that. The road was little more than a hard-packed dirt
path, and was obscure. It was impossible to mistake the way, and
impossible not to find the way back to the highway. All one had to do
was turn around.
She slipped quietly up to the door and peered through the peephole
with curiosity—then recoiled as if stung. Greg's tall commanding
frame fully filled the small magnifying glass, his dark face looking
sombre, even stern. She didn't like that look. It frightened her. She
backed away from the door and climbed on to the couch slowly,
watching her front curtained windows as if she expected him to crash
into the room. He didn't, but the pounding continued for some
minutes, along with his deep voice calling her.
'Sara? Sara!' he shouted through the door. 'I know you're in there,
because your car is in the garage. Let me in, please! I want to talk to
you. Sara? Are you all right?'
She picked up her cup of tea and sipped it carefully, listening to his
calling. Finally, seemingly to take ages in her mind, the calling
stopped and footsteps sounded on the small wooden porch. She
sighed and began to relax, only just then realising how tensely she
had been holding herself. That was why when she heard hard
knocking at her back door, and the rattle of her door knob, she
jumped like a startled colt. Unable to help herself, she crept into the
kitchen to listen to Greg calling to her, a thread of impatience
running through his deep voice. Eventually he stopped, and she went
about the small routine of fixing herself another cup of tea. After
staring at the wall opposite the couch for quite some time and
consuming several cups of tea, she finally managed to rouse herself
enough to take a shower. Leaving her hair wet and hanging limply
down her back, with the dressing gown belted once more about her
waist, she padded into the living room, seating herself at the old
upright piano and stared at the keys with sadness.
She wanted to play but couldn't seem to find it within herself. She
wanted to be creative and work out a new, strange melody to
adequately describe just what she was feeling inside, but she couldn't
seem to pick up her heavy hands and play. She wanted to sing, to
pour out her guts and to fill the room with her voice, to release all
that was inside and aching to get out, but the music just wasn't there.
For the first time in her life, Sara couldn't play.
She sat looking down at her hands, and tears slid down her face.
What had she done to herself? Had she really damaged her own
music beyond repair? She couldn't accept that. Her music would
always be with her. It was as much a part of herself as her breathing
and thinking. She would only lose her music when she laid down her
head and died.
time. What did she have to get up for? Where did she have to go?
Whom did she get to look forward to meeting? These questions and
others plagued her throughout the small remainder of the morning.
She didn't bother to get dressed; she wasn't going to get out of the
house, and no one would be seeing her.
After feeling so good about herself for a long stretch of time, this
depression hit her hard. She listlessly made herself a cup of tea and
took it into the living room. Setting the cup down on the coffee table,
she took the time to belt her dressing gown more firmly around her
small waist before sitting down. Just as she was sinking into a curled-
up position on the couch, a firm knock sounded at the front door,
making her nearly jump out of her skin. She stared at the rectangular
frame of wood, as if expecting someone to bash down the door and
force an entry into the house. Who in the world could be wanting to
see her? Perhaps it was someone who had taken a wrong turn off the
nearby highway, and wanted to know directions. Sara considered this
possibility for a moment with her head cocked to one side, as the
knocking turned to imperative pounding, and she decided that it
couldn't be that. The road was little more than a hard-packed dirt
path, and was obscure. It was impossible to mistake the way, and
impossible not to find the way back to the highway. All one had to do
was turn around.
She slipped quietly up to the door and peered through the peephole
with curiosity—then recoiled as if stung. Greg's tall commanding
frame fully filled the small magnifying glass, his dark face looking
sombre, even stern. She didn't like that look. It frightened her. She
backed away from the door and climbed on to the couch slowly,
watching her front curtained windows as if she expected him to crash
into the room. He didn't, but the pounding continued for some
minutes, along with his deep voice calling her.
'Sara? Sara!' he shouted through the door. 'I know you're in there,
because your car is in the garage. Let me in, please! I want to talk to
you. Sara? Are you all right?'
She picked up her cup of tea and sipped it carefully, listening to his
calling. Finally, seemingly to take ages in her mind, the calling
stopped and footsteps sounded on the small wooden porch. She
sighed and began to relax, only just then realising how tensely she
had been holding herself. That was why when she heard hard
knocking at her back door, and the rattle of her door knob, she
jumped like a startled colt. Unable to help herself, she crept into the
kitchen to listen to Greg calling to her, a thread of impatience
running through his deep voice. Eventually he stopped, and she went
about the small routine of fixing herself another cup of tea. After
staring at the wall opposite the couch for quite some time and
consuming several cups of tea, she finally managed to rouse herself
enough to take a shower. Leaving her hair wet and hanging limply
down her back, with the dressing gown belted once more about her
waist, she padded into the living room, seating herself at the old
upright piano and stared at the keys with sadness.
She wanted to play but couldn't seem to find it within herself. She
wanted to be creative and work out a new, strange melody to
adequately describe just what she was feeling inside, but she couldn't
seem to pick up her heavy hands and play. She wanted to sing, to
pour out her guts and to fill the room with her voice, to release all
that was inside and aching to get out, but the music just wasn't there.
For the first time in her life, Sara couldn't play.
She sat looking down at her hands, and tears slid down her face.
What had she done to herself? Had she really damaged her own
music beyond repair? She couldn't accept that. Her music would
always be with her. It was as much a part of herself as her breathing
and thinking. She would only lose her music when she laid down her
head and died.
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