Morning Star
נבל נבל
We both had a heart for song, which would explain why, many years after your absence, sometimes I would hear my heart humming well deep inside me, something melancholy, something longing, always beautiful, just like I imagined you must have been. I thought of nothing but you whenever I caught the time, and I did not think any of them wasted. I presumed my veins could be plucked like notes on a string, and my ribcage made for pretty acoustics, but it was always with your mouth that you made my body sway and sing. Nothing ever sounded a symphony like with you wanting me.
Sometimes we would listen to the water rushing through, trickling past, dropping there, harmonies too scattered to place, or to the sound of the leaves rustled by a visiting wind, like ghosts caught up in applause. Sometimes we would hear only each other breathe, and if we heard hard enough, beats pummeling like horses and chariots from our chests, plundering armies by the blood in our veins. We were always too close, but a note or so apart. It was that note that would matter the most, but it did not matter in those times. I still had a different memory of you.
I remember standing beside you in the choir, singing the same words, though you always told me that mine was a touch sweeter than anyone else’s. More meaning, though I did not know what you could have possibly meant, for He all made us the same way. That was the belief back then. Even the first time we were all handed the instruments, the knowledge to play embedded within us all that we needed no one to teach us. You always did laugh at me, so fondly and so kindly, when we discovered what would soon be known as my bad hands. My fingers simply refused to cooperate with the signals my mind was sending them, pressing all the wrong holes, tugging at the wrong strings. I was the only angel clumsy enough not to know the harp, the flute, the cymbals.
I can barely believe it, you once exclaimed. The cymbals! What makes it so difficult for you?
I do not know, I replied to you, pouting so very immaturely, so much like the cherubim I truly was. The noise bothers me.
You chuckled, softly, nudging me very gently with a white elbow. Oh, is that so?
Yes! I said, quite defensively, like I had something to prove. The... clanging... is very irritating. It ruins my concentration, you see. I said it with such conviction, convinced that I was convincing that I nearly believed it myself. You would not hear any of it.
The clanging, you repeated after me, so amused that it showed through your voice, in the relaxed and almost merry position of your frame. The clanging, yes, of course, how could I not have seen it earlier? How could I be so horrible?
It... hurts my ears! I longed to salvage whatever pride I pretended to have left, pretending to know of pain, even if it was such a meaningless word in my vocabulary back then. Oh, leave me alone, you are terrible. I said, though I did not mean them. You did not take offense, and you stayed, because you knew I did not mean them.
Even sounding a gong was too much for them to handle, dropping the mallet and making your mouth drop open in a loud smile. I always seemed embarrassed, and I was, but I was happy that only I could make you lose your guard, look that way too. Sometimes things were always more beautiful when they lost control, when they were out of the Father’s hands, though we both know that is not often the case.
One thing I also recall was your preference of the violin. You always held it so carefully, your fingers light on the strings and your hand steady on the bow, tucking it between your chin and your shoulder with almost a certainty that you would not drop it, that the very thought was preposterous. You made up melodies in your head and let them guide you, played music unrecorded so that no one ever heard them again after you were done no matter how wonderful they were. And you did not simply do it with your hands either. You danced with it, it made your entire body sway, you moved with rhythm as your invisible partner. You told me, once, that you felt your heartbeat echo across its wooden surface once, and that was that. You loved it too much to let anything happen to it, somehow, more than you ever did for me, though I knew you did not love us both the same way.
But perhaps there was a reason for it. It would be known for something I was not – yours – and would be in pictures where I should have been, but was not. It would prove to be more loyal to you, though, even if it did not mean to, even if I never meant for it to surpass me, for it would someday be called the Devil’s fiddle.
Sometimes we would listen to the water rushing through, trickling past, dropping there, harmonies too scattered to place, or to the sound of the leaves rustled by a visiting wind, like ghosts caught up in applause. Sometimes we would hear only each other breathe, and if we heard hard enough, beats pummeling like horses and chariots from our chests, plundering armies by the blood in our veins. We were always too close, but a note or so apart. It was that note that would matter the most, but it did not matter in those times. I still had a different memory of you.
I remember standing beside you in the choir, singing the same words, though you always told me that mine was a touch sweeter than anyone else’s. More meaning, though I did not know what you could have possibly meant, for He all made us the same way. That was the belief back then. Even the first time we were all handed the instruments, the knowledge to play embedded within us all that we needed no one to teach us. You always did laugh at me, so fondly and so kindly, when we discovered what would soon be known as my bad hands. My fingers simply refused to cooperate with the signals my mind was sending them, pressing all the wrong holes, tugging at the wrong strings. I was the only angel clumsy enough not to know the harp, the flute, the cymbals.
I can barely believe it, you once exclaimed. The cymbals! What makes it so difficult for you?
I do not know, I replied to you, pouting so very immaturely, so much like the cherubim I truly was. The noise bothers me.
You chuckled, softly, nudging me very gently with a white elbow. Oh, is that so?
Yes! I said, quite defensively, like I had something to prove. The... clanging... is very irritating. It ruins my concentration, you see. I said it with such conviction, convinced that I was convincing that I nearly believed it myself. You would not hear any of it.
The clanging, you repeated after me, so amused that it showed through your voice, in the relaxed and almost merry position of your frame. The clanging, yes, of course, how could I not have seen it earlier? How could I be so horrible?
It... hurts my ears! I longed to salvage whatever pride I pretended to have left, pretending to know of pain, even if it was such a meaningless word in my vocabulary back then. Oh, leave me alone, you are terrible. I said, though I did not mean them. You did not take offense, and you stayed, because you knew I did not mean them.
Even sounding a gong was too much for them to handle, dropping the mallet and making your mouth drop open in a loud smile. I always seemed embarrassed, and I was, but I was happy that only I could make you lose your guard, look that way too. Sometimes things were always more beautiful when they lost control, when they were out of the Father’s hands, though we both know that is not often the case.
One thing I also recall was your preference of the violin. You always held it so carefully, your fingers light on the strings and your hand steady on the bow, tucking it between your chin and your shoulder with almost a certainty that you would not drop it, that the very thought was preposterous. You made up melodies in your head and let them guide you, played music unrecorded so that no one ever heard them again after you were done no matter how wonderful they were. And you did not simply do it with your hands either. You danced with it, it made your entire body sway, you moved with rhythm as your invisible partner. You told me, once, that you felt your heartbeat echo across its wooden surface once, and that was that. You loved it too much to let anything happen to it, somehow, more than you ever did for me, though I knew you did not love us both the same way.
But perhaps there was a reason for it. It would be known for something I was not – yours – and would be in pictures where I should have been, but was not. It would prove to be more loyal to you, though, even if it did not mean to, even if I never meant for it to surpass me, for it would someday be called the Devil’s fiddle.