Shadows of Hope

Chapter 9

Zade's POV

My fingers waltz across ivory keys; the melody light and sweet. There's no need for sheet music, I know the tune by heart. Closing my eyes I envision the silhouette of a child dancing among clouds of cotton candy and ribbons of peppermint.

"Carmel Dreams?" I glance up at my mother standing in the doorway to the sitting room. Her light brown hair is highlighted with purple streaks and styled into a bob. She's wearing black jeans and a white graphic t-shirt sporting Greenday's logo. A full-time hairdresser and part-time artist, her style is a mix of whimsy and punk. 

I increase the tempo until my fingers skate across a sea of black and white. "Right as always." Completing the final few notes with reverence, I end with one final crescendo.

"And to think, you owe your love of music to that sturdy oak tree out back." She's laughing now but 18 years ago she was screaming louder than the ambulance carrying me to the hospital.

I run a single finger along the almost imperceptible white line which travels from the inside of my elbow up toward my shoulder. It's about half an inch in length; long enough to serve as a reminder that seven year old boys cannot fly.

If Colt hadn't dared me that day, then I probably wouldn't have climbed up to the highest branch and jumped, blue and white striped cape flailing behind me. Probably. Maybe. Ok, would have done it anyway. I was Superman!

Breaking my left leg led to many consequences including sitting out football season. Being cooped up in the house, while my buddies were playing kickball at the neighbor's farm, was too much to bear. I became a whiny, prickly pain. Fed up with my mouth running faster than a NASCAR hot rod, Mom set me on the piano bench and taught me how to play some basic scales. Six weeks later I was cast free and playing Mary Had A Little Lamb like a pro.

Closing the lid carefully, I make a mental note to have a piano tuner come out to the house. Mom taught me to appreciate music in all of its forms. Though country is my first love, I'm forever indebted to her and her unwavering faith in my ability to learn something which wasn't sport related.  I just wish she would allow me to replace this ancient relic of a piano.

"I'm working on a brand new country ballad but the chorus has me mired in quicksand. Every note I play rings hollow."

Mom takes a seat beside me on the rickety bench, careful not to lean too far to the left.

"Remember the painting that hung in Mamaw's bedroom for years?" 

I nod. "The one with the beautiful woman kneeling by the well, hands outstretched in joy and awe?"

"Yes. It took me three years to complete it and even then I wasn't satisfied."

I wrap my arm around Mom's shoulders, squeezing her gently into my side. With my father gone, I'm the protector.  

"It's one of my favorites actually."

She lies her head upon my shoulder and heaves a quiet sigh, the type that moves in harmony with the breeze instead of bellowing with the storm. "It was her face. I must have sat down hundreds of times before my easel. As soon as I picked up my brush though, inspiration crumbled, rocks falling from the cliff into the vast turbulent sea."

"I just can't picture you struggling with something which comes so natural to you. Art is part of your soul."

"And yet we meet the waves head on, swimming until we land upon the shore."

"Maybe I want to surf instead?"

If chuckles could be colors Mom's would be honey gold flecked with hints of amber. "Then you might miss all of the magic beneath the waves."