Legendary // H.S

64.

'I love in your direction, hoping that the message goes'

*

One thing I'm glad to have picked up these past few months is the love of playing piano again. Now more than ever, it makes me feel connected to Dad, replaying memories around the instrument in my head until I try and recreate them myself. There's a certain comfort that comes with the feathery tune that plays through the strings, the melody dancing through your veins and relaxing every tense muscle in your body. It's not about who listens, but what you feel within yourself. That's what Dad always told me.

In the nights that I've struggled with sleep, I've found myself in this room. My fingers play whatever tune comes to mind and for a few moments I am allowed to express the pain radiating through me without saying it out loud. The music is enough to let Harry know. Sometimes he joins me, but there's been a few times when he's known to give me my privacy. He always knows what's right.

Today, I came up here before I even bothered to try and close my eyes. While Harry clears up downstairs, the team having stayed for dinner like a family function, I wandered up here to try and make sense of what was going through my head. I'm still not entirely sure what I'm feeling.

There's some guilt, I think. Guilt over smiling and laughing for the first time since Dad died. Guilt over not even remembering why my chest aches so much while I distracted myself with my tasks. Guilt over feeling as if I'm moving on. Everyone says that you have to move on after enduring something that can't be undone, that the person you lost wouldn't want you to throw your life away while grieving theirs, but the thought of going on as normal still feels wrong. I just need to learn to adapt.

Alongside this is fear. Fear that perhaps I'll never stop hurting. Fear that maybe I don't want to stop because it connects me to Dad. Fear about how desperately I want to join him. I just miss him so much; it's consumed everything within me. It's becoming slightly easier to manage but the pit within my stomach hasn't lessened. Some days I convince myself it's grown. I go to pick up the phone to give Dad a call and then it hits me I'll never be able to talk to him again, and I find myself reacting the same way I did when I first found out.

But then, by some inexplicable phenomenon, there is hope. Hope for the future. Hope that the next day will be better. Hope that one day I will not have to carry this pain like a weighted bag on my shoulder. No more will I be completely controlled by it. Yes, it will have an impact me, but it will not have the hold on me that it does now. I'll be able to smile without guilt, to wake without fear, and breathe with more hope.

I sit by this piano each day, I play a song, and somehow there is hope that lingers. I haven't spoken about it with anyone, not even Babz, but I think just acknowledging it is enough for now. Not all the songs are meant for this purpose, but most help me find it. Their chords transport me to another realm where the sun shines and the flowers bloom, and I feel light again. Because it allows me to see him. Allows me to feel the warmth of his company, even if it only lasts a few minutes. I'll take that over nothing.

Tonight, my fingers play a tune by the Beatles. Let it Be. Dad always loved the Beatles, but he never taught me any of their songs on the piano. I learnt this one myself to surprise him. He only heard me play it a few times before I ultimately gave up lessons for something else, but he always hummed the tune for me.

It was one of those songs he'd remind me of if I had a bad day. It felt right playing it this evening. Like I had to in order to process everything.

And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree

There will be an answer, let it be.

I spoke the lyrics softly to myself, just to vocalise the lessons I need to learn about my grief. I know the song was written by Paul McCartney after his mother died and he saw her in a dream. A visit from an angel. When I sit at this piano, it feels like Dad visits me too.