Delaware

Time is something you never forget. Time is something that either works with or against you. After a few years of silence, you learn to keep track of the time. You begin to curse the time and wish it would still or reverse. When it does neither for even more years, that’s when you start to lose your mind.

I remember when this hell of mine started. Dela could barely walk. Her clothes hung on her like they would a hanger and she had lost the will to move. The doctor said bed rest was what she needed just a few days ago, and then she was told nothing would do anyone good. There was something in the water, the air. Everything around us was contaminated. They promised a cure but it was too late. Dela coughed blood on the fifth week and a quarter of the world’s population was dead two weeks later. Nobody knew why, nobody could stop it.

There was talk that they were going to drop bombs on the infected. Dela, as sick as she was, left. I didn’t have one clue as to why she did until she finally came home. The things that are inevitable are the most shocking, the things you never want to happen. As the years roll by you see a lot of death, but the one person you take for granted and never expect to go anywhere is always the hardest loss to accept.

If there’s one thing you learn over the years, it’s how to accept. Acceptance was and still is part of my job. Accept people of all different walks of life and the music they make, accept the fact that one day they will leave this world and when they do silence will prevail once more. And then, accept loneliness. Accept that any person who picks you up could be the last that ever pulls the strings and strokes the chords, bringing beauty to the world. Accept that any good-bye could be forever and that one day you will be bathed with dust inside a leather case as their last words echo eternally.

Delaware was my last owner, and most of all she was my best friend. What happened on the last day of October sticks with me still. It was her favorite month, two weekends away from her birthday. There was a hauntingly peaceful silence that she enjoyed, staring down at the metal case that kept me safe. There was not a tear in her eyes or a hair out of place when she smiled and closed the lid. Dela acted like none of it bothered her and strange part is, she made me think it was okay, too, even as the darkness consumed the light and the sirens bellowed, explosions ringing out from the sky.

I can only hope now that the smile I saw last still exists on her face, no longer sick from radiation. I hope that music still exists wherever she may be and that she can forget the screams of burning men. I hope that not a red hair on her head is out of place, and that her hands still bear the callouses of memories shared. I hope that one day this safe haven she made for me will no longer be a tomb and that someday I’ll join her. Until then, I’ll let the echo of her last song embrace.