Sequel: Cure ›
Sickness
Rainbow
I always thought I would be the first to go.
I am older, wiser, more prepared. I never thought my child would go before me. It’s not right. My heart is not the same, nor is the life I live without my daughter. It’s like God’s hand reached inside of me and grabbed a piece of my heart, not to mention my soul. I have not tried to replace it because I know it’s not possible, but I have made my heart bigger since I lost Rose. Just like how the ocean keeps getting deeper and deeper but it can never be filled completely with water. My heart is an ocean. Ma coeur est la mer.
It’s been seven years. Seven years since my daughter was hit by a drunk driver, and rammed her head through person’s windshield unintentionally. Seven years since the car flipped over and was thrown into and oak tree. Seven years since I saw her shattered body laying the hospital.
It has also been seven years since I have been admitted to the hospital. Just goes to show that with every curse, there is a blessing.
Or vice versa.
Not a day goes by when I don’t think of Rose. If I think something is sad or funny, I’ll wonder what she would have thought of it. When I go shopping, I notice clothes that she would have looked beautiful in. Not that she wasn’t already beautiful. When I listen to music, I cry. Especially classical music. If I’m driving 65 on the highway and a strings piece comes on, I have to pull over and sit back in my seat. Whenever I am driving, I am always extra attentive. I have never hit anyone with my car, and I never plan to.
I have not cleaned out Rose’s room. It is exactly the way she left it seven years ago. Sometimes, I go in and sit on her bed. Jack has come over many times. He used to go into Rose’s room for hours. I asked him what he did in there once.
“I smell her clothes. I look at her things. I listen to her music. I feel her bedspread, clothes, and other various items. Sometimes, if I try hard enough, I can almost taste her mouth on mine. I figure that if I use all of my senses to remember, it’s the closest I can get to having her back. There are days when I don’t want to use any. I don’t want to live. So I have to feel with my heart. It’s the only way I won’t forget her. And then when I do remember, it makes me want to live again.”
Jack still comes over, but not as often as he used to.
He’s getting married soon. In August, on Rose’s birthday. His fiancée is a beautiful Latino woman. She’s a poet, and already has two best sellers published. I have met this woman. She is my best friend, and she reminds me so much of my daughter. Her name is Ana. I guess Jack likes diversity.
John has twenty string students. He teaches violin, viola, cello, and bass. Half of his students play viola. All of the students who have graduated high school and were taught by John have gotten into Julliard. I am exceedingly happy for John.
Today is another day without my daughter, my Rose. Today I am going to sit on her bed, maybe touch a few of her things. I go in, and snuggle underneath her plain covers. I lay my head down on her pillow. Something crinkles. It sounds like paper. Confused, I lift my head and reach under the pillow. What I pull out is nothing I could have ever imagined.
There are about 30 pages worth of music. They are yellowed and delicate. I carefully look through the pages. I notice that all of this is one piece. One. And it’s handwritten.
It’s written all in the alto clef, which startles me because the entire piece is in chords and breaks down into different parts at times. I don’t understand. I go back the first page and look towards the top.
Viola Quintet in B Flat Major.
Oh my God.
Breathe.
Deep breathes.
Rose told me about this once. I didn’t think she was serious. I look through it again and read more carefully. It’s genius. This entire piece is genius.
The sun is beginning to set outside of Rose’s windows. A plethora of color comes through and lights up the music. It lights up my life. It’s as if my whole world has gone from black and white to a rainbow of color.
I sprint from Rose’s room with the music and out the door. I am barefoot, but I don’t care. The ground outside is hot, but I don’t care. It is getting darker, but I don’t care. I must get to the park. I must keep running.
Four weeks later, I am walking to the park with Jack and Ana. We go to a nearby bench and sit down. It is wet from the rain earlier in the day, but we don’t mind. Our bottoms can get wet. John comes up to me with four people behind him. They are all carrying the same instrument.
“Thank you so much for this,” John says to me.
“No. Thank you,” I reply.
The five musicians put their instruments up. They begin to play. What I hear is not like anything I’ve heard before. It’s bold, brilliant, sorrowful, exciting. It’s everything I could have imagined it would be and more. Rose has exceeded my expectations once again.
People start to gather around. A woman standing near us has tears in her eyes. Men who were rushing to get home from work have stopped in their tracks.
The musicians are really getting into it. They’ve been into it from the start. Ever since I gave John the music. He separated the parts so that each violist could have their own music and they learned it. They learned it so well.
The last chord is played. John’s eyes are closed, and his viola still rests on his shoulder. His breathing is audible. Slowly, people begin to clap. Jack, Ana, and I clap the loudest.
A man in a crisp suit walks up to John.
“That was absolutely spectacular. Who is the composer?”
“Rose Kolobi.”
“I have never heard of her. But I would like to make her known. Where is she?”
“She’s not here,” I say.
The man turns around. “Then where?” he asks.
I point to the sky. The man nods his head solemly. “When did this happen?”
“Seven years ago,” I say with tears welling in my eyes.
“Were you her mother?”
I nod.
“I truly am sorry. I’m sure she was an extraordinary woman. Just look at what her piece has done to these people, this day! Look at the sky!” he exclaims.
We look up. There is a strip of color going across. It’s a once in a lifetime experience to see a double rainbow.
The man says he wants the musicians to come into New York City to record the song. He’s a classical record producer and wants to make this piece the talk of people all over the world. He says it’s what it deserves.
I look up at the rainbow again.
Imagine for a minute that you have seen something beautiful, and you feel your heart stop. I have felt this. Imagine that you just realized that whomever you have lost in your life has given you a sign that everything is going to be okay.
Rose has given me a sign that is as beautiful as her name, her piece, her existence, herself.
Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.
The colors of life. I know now that no one is truly gone when they die. The leave behind pieces of themselves, and introduce new ones. Like this rainbow.
Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!… -William Wordsworth
THE END
I am older, wiser, more prepared. I never thought my child would go before me. It’s not right. My heart is not the same, nor is the life I live without my daughter. It’s like God’s hand reached inside of me and grabbed a piece of my heart, not to mention my soul. I have not tried to replace it because I know it’s not possible, but I have made my heart bigger since I lost Rose. Just like how the ocean keeps getting deeper and deeper but it can never be filled completely with water. My heart is an ocean. Ma coeur est la mer.
It’s been seven years. Seven years since my daughter was hit by a drunk driver, and rammed her head through person’s windshield unintentionally. Seven years since the car flipped over and was thrown into and oak tree. Seven years since I saw her shattered body laying the hospital.
It has also been seven years since I have been admitted to the hospital. Just goes to show that with every curse, there is a blessing.
Or vice versa.
Not a day goes by when I don’t think of Rose. If I think something is sad or funny, I’ll wonder what she would have thought of it. When I go shopping, I notice clothes that she would have looked beautiful in. Not that she wasn’t already beautiful. When I listen to music, I cry. Especially classical music. If I’m driving 65 on the highway and a strings piece comes on, I have to pull over and sit back in my seat. Whenever I am driving, I am always extra attentive. I have never hit anyone with my car, and I never plan to.
I have not cleaned out Rose’s room. It is exactly the way she left it seven years ago. Sometimes, I go in and sit on her bed. Jack has come over many times. He used to go into Rose’s room for hours. I asked him what he did in there once.
“I smell her clothes. I look at her things. I listen to her music. I feel her bedspread, clothes, and other various items. Sometimes, if I try hard enough, I can almost taste her mouth on mine. I figure that if I use all of my senses to remember, it’s the closest I can get to having her back. There are days when I don’t want to use any. I don’t want to live. So I have to feel with my heart. It’s the only way I won’t forget her. And then when I do remember, it makes me want to live again.”
Jack still comes over, but not as often as he used to.
He’s getting married soon. In August, on Rose’s birthday. His fiancée is a beautiful Latino woman. She’s a poet, and already has two best sellers published. I have met this woman. She is my best friend, and she reminds me so much of my daughter. Her name is Ana. I guess Jack likes diversity.
John has twenty string students. He teaches violin, viola, cello, and bass. Half of his students play viola. All of the students who have graduated high school and were taught by John have gotten into Julliard. I am exceedingly happy for John.
Today is another day without my daughter, my Rose. Today I am going to sit on her bed, maybe touch a few of her things. I go in, and snuggle underneath her plain covers. I lay my head down on her pillow. Something crinkles. It sounds like paper. Confused, I lift my head and reach under the pillow. What I pull out is nothing I could have ever imagined.
There are about 30 pages worth of music. They are yellowed and delicate. I carefully look through the pages. I notice that all of this is one piece. One. And it’s handwritten.
It’s written all in the alto clef, which startles me because the entire piece is in chords and breaks down into different parts at times. I don’t understand. I go back the first page and look towards the top.
Viola Quintet in B Flat Major.
Oh my God.
Breathe.
Deep breathes.
Rose told me about this once. I didn’t think she was serious. I look through it again and read more carefully. It’s genius. This entire piece is genius.
The sun is beginning to set outside of Rose’s windows. A plethora of color comes through and lights up the music. It lights up my life. It’s as if my whole world has gone from black and white to a rainbow of color.
I sprint from Rose’s room with the music and out the door. I am barefoot, but I don’t care. The ground outside is hot, but I don’t care. It is getting darker, but I don’t care. I must get to the park. I must keep running.
Four weeks later, I am walking to the park with Jack and Ana. We go to a nearby bench and sit down. It is wet from the rain earlier in the day, but we don’t mind. Our bottoms can get wet. John comes up to me with four people behind him. They are all carrying the same instrument.
“Thank you so much for this,” John says to me.
“No. Thank you,” I reply.
The five musicians put their instruments up. They begin to play. What I hear is not like anything I’ve heard before. It’s bold, brilliant, sorrowful, exciting. It’s everything I could have imagined it would be and more. Rose has exceeded my expectations once again.
People start to gather around. A woman standing near us has tears in her eyes. Men who were rushing to get home from work have stopped in their tracks.
The musicians are really getting into it. They’ve been into it from the start. Ever since I gave John the music. He separated the parts so that each violist could have their own music and they learned it. They learned it so well.
The last chord is played. John’s eyes are closed, and his viola still rests on his shoulder. His breathing is audible. Slowly, people begin to clap. Jack, Ana, and I clap the loudest.
A man in a crisp suit walks up to John.
“That was absolutely spectacular. Who is the composer?”
“Rose Kolobi.”
“I have never heard of her. But I would like to make her known. Where is she?”
“She’s not here,” I say.
The man turns around. “Then where?” he asks.
I point to the sky. The man nods his head solemly. “When did this happen?”
“Seven years ago,” I say with tears welling in my eyes.
“Were you her mother?”
I nod.
“I truly am sorry. I’m sure she was an extraordinary woman. Just look at what her piece has done to these people, this day! Look at the sky!” he exclaims.
We look up. There is a strip of color going across. It’s a once in a lifetime experience to see a double rainbow.
The man says he wants the musicians to come into New York City to record the song. He’s a classical record producer and wants to make this piece the talk of people all over the world. He says it’s what it deserves.
I look up at the rainbow again.
Imagine for a minute that you have seen something beautiful, and you feel your heart stop. I have felt this. Imagine that you just realized that whomever you have lost in your life has given you a sign that everything is going to be okay.
Rose has given me a sign that is as beautiful as her name, her piece, her existence, herself.
Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.
The colors of life. I know now that no one is truly gone when they die. The leave behind pieces of themselves, and introduce new ones. Like this rainbow.
Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!… -William Wordsworth
THE END