More than a Melody (H.S) ON HOLD

55

fifty five

It was difficult for my mind to focus on anything other than Miles the rest of the evening.

The event took place in a local art museum more inland, nestled alongside the grassy foothills. It was far more remote than the coastal shops and homes, yet the halls were spilling over with warm bodies from all over. Some were locals, business owners, tourists, fellow art enthusiasts who's work lingered on the walls, and then there was us.

We made our way through, starting from the beginning, leisurely strolling and pretending to profess an ounce of artistic knowledge. Harry was jokingly superficial. There was one painting of a contorted face; looking at the canvas straight on, it appeared to just be a mess of lines and colors. But with slight squinting and a tilt of the head, you could clearly see the separation of the faces. One face (along the surface) was joyous; content. The face below it was miserable; exhausted. It was a clear depiction of living life through a facade. All it took was a switch of an angle, of perspective, to unveil the true meaning.

Harry asked how they got a picture of me.

I laughed, of course, but despite all of the temporary distractions, I couldn't really get my mind off of anything other than Miles and Oregon. It was as if I were walking through a crowded room with headphones on, blocking out the world with my own. And I tried my best to shake away the incessant overthinking, but that was a flaw in my existence that could never go away. No matter how much I tried to suppress and ignore it.

"Un-tense your shoulders, relax your jaw," Harry whispers from behind me, resting his hands on the bridging of my shoulders to relieve the tension. I sigh, falling back into him as we both rest our eyes on a chiaroscuro painting. The dissimilitude of light and dark was fitting for the constant state of my mind.

"When I was a kid," he leans into me, so that only I can hear him, "no older than ten, my mum took me to this little bookstore a little ways from home. I loved to read, could read for days on end if you'd let me, but I was only ever allowed to on the days my father wasn't home. He took my passion for literature and music as a sign of weakness..," Harry swallows and runs his calloused fingertips down the sides of my arms. I find his hand and loop it with mine, our footsteps slow and spaced out.

"Usually, my mum would take me to the library and I would check out a book and read the entire thing in an afternoon. Sometimes my sister would tag along and we would read together. It was our way of bonding, of briefly getting away from the reality we could never truly leave. It was an escape. Everyone needs an escape," he guides us away from the group and down a side hall, where the unnoticed pieces are located. I listen to his words and focus on him. Only him.

"But that day she took me to the bookstore, she handed me a novel and told me to read it once then and again later, when I was much older. The first time I read it, I only understood what the words on the page showed. I didn't see or understand the author's true meaning until I read it again at nineteen. This was years after my mum had passed, and I was just starting to remember her again, to remember everything, all that I had missed because I was trauma blind for so long."

My eyes sting. I wait for my cheeks to be wet.

"The book was Fahrenheit 451. I first understood it as this dystopian reality, where books were banned and the people sought to rebel because it was unfair; I assumed she was hinting at my father and his distaste for reading, but later, I saw what my mother wanted me to see; a purpose much deeper. The ache and desire for individuality, to fight against dehumanization and the shackles of the world. The world he designed for us. I realized, at nineteen, that I failed my mother. I failed myself. And I was in too deep to see a way out. I didn't want that for anyone, ever again, not if I had the means to stop it."