13.Dec.2001

humble

--

there is only this

From the living room rose the bass of "Summertime", brought by my mother's brittle yet soft fingers. I tilted my head to the side. This piano, while out of tune, is haunting, and the treble overcomes me, creepingly, like molasses, every time, when I can step back and listen, instead of play myself, and my head falls back, eyes closed, complete surrender to the moment, of music breaking from my mother's fingertips.

It is humbling to peer in from the piano's window instead of from inside its door. It is humbling. Love is humbling. And there is, right now, only this, of staring at the computer's keyboard, making sense of the QWERTY-placed letters, phrases, into emotion, into streams of awe into this java-script box while she continues to play, grey clouds shifting, December rain, the windows of the kitchen begin to steam, the sun set low in the distance, a luminously grey sphere of stifling distance, impending distance, led softly by music, the A, the E, crash, break, gingerly lifting itself to gaze you in the face for three seconds before turning away.

And that's all it takes.

I fucking love my mother.

--

time & machine