Almost Lost It All

August 6th, 2014
5PM

So why are you sitting here?

I'm in the attic of my house. When I look around I don't see cobwebs or darkness or boxes holding old belongings. I see cameras, notebooks, a drumset, and a piano. Among the walls there are frames filled with all different photos ranging from musicians to nature to people alone. A collection of old flashbulb cameras, new digital cameras, and professional cameras hang from metal hooks. On top of the piano there are open notebooks and loose paper with a couple of pens. On the snare drum of the set there's a pair of worn out drumsticks. This is how she left it.

This was her artistic domain. Anything she came up with either started here or ended up here. When we bought this house she mentioned fixing up the attic about a hundred times but never got to it. One Christmas morning I lead her upstairs to this room instead of downstairs where the Christmas tree was. All spring I worked with our friends and her brother to create this room for her. A new grand piano sat in the far corner, undusty and ready to play, unlike it is now. Her drumset was by lighted by the brilliant winter sun that shined through the far window. On hooks her camera collection was presented to her; she found three more cameras to add that morning as well. A pile of compostion notebooks sat in the cove in front of the main window. Empty frames hung all around, ready to be filled with something amazing. She was completely surprised. She tried hard to talk at first, but just couldn't. She kissed me instead.

As I look around now I realize how much this meant to both of us. All of her creativity streamed through me, her friends, this room, then finally to herself. This was the place she could go to unwind. She wrote her literature in here, played her music in here, and analyzed her photography. When she was having an episode she came up the attic to play the piano or write. Some nights she wouldn't come to bed because she was caught up in her own little world. If I listened hard enough I could hear her singing or talking to herself as she worked. And some nights I would be lucky enough to open the door without a sound. I would peek in silently to watch her work. When she wrote she would stare at a blank page for five minutes before she wrote something down, only to scribble it out to start all over again. When she played drums she would smile to herself because she felt free. But I loved watching her play piano the most. When she played piano she let her hair down so it was completely wild and natural, falling into her face. Her sleeves were pushed up in determination; she bit her lip in concentration. Her fingers flew over the keys with such ease that I felt like I was somewhere else. Somewhere safe. My favourite was when she used to tilt her head back, blow the hair out of her face, and sing a note.

This was her escape from reality. She could be only and utterly Jen in this room. All that she was can be found right here. And it kills me.

Hot forms behind my eyes while I look from picture to picture. Even in her photography there's so much feeling. She caught every angle perfectly to make you want to stare. All of the frames are filled. There's loose pictures on almost every surface. I want to pick up each one of them but I barely have the patience to be standing here. I haven't opened this door in four years. She was the last one in this room. I can smell the sweet scent of her. I can taste it on my tongue. Somehow, just somehow, I can feel her around me. So without any thought I go to the piano and sit down. My legs are shaking along with every part of my body. I let my trembling fingers trail lightly across the keys, longing to feel the touch of her hands on mine. I lick my dry lips.

That Christmas morning there was something else on top of this piano. There was a small box. Inside the box a ring gleamed hopefully. When Jen opened it I was shaking then, too. But I was shaking because I was so nervous. I was so nervous, in fact, that I stuttered the simple words,

"Will you marry me?"

Every word I had to force out. I laugh out loud to myself, remembering the moment. There were happy tears in her eyes. She swallowed once and nodded. She nearly whispered the word yes. At that second I thought my future was set. I thought I would be the happiest man alive for the rest of my life.

As I look up at surface of the piano I can see that small box. Inside the box I know a ring has gave up gleaming; it's hopeless.

For the first time in three years I bow my head again and cry. I let my tears fall through the keys and clean the dusty memories.